


Persistence: Part 6

by JaneOfCakes



Series: Persistence [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hot Sex, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Porn, Post-Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Pre-Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-07-29 20:23:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16271672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneOfCakes/pseuds/JaneOfCakes
Summary: I'm back! I couldn't stay away, so I really powered through this chapter. I do apologize if there are any errors as a result.It's been two weeks since Sherlock told John he doesn't want their relationship to change.How does John feel about being told the love of his life never wants to be his husband and what news does Mycroft bring?





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I couldn't stay away, so I really powered through this chapter. I do apologize if there are any errors as a result.
> 
> It's been two weeks since Sherlock told John he doesn't want their relationship to change.  
> How does John feel about being told the love of his life never wants to be his husband and what news does Mycroft bring?

It’s nearly the end of the day at the surgery. John sits at his desk with the last patient’s chart and file. He likes to make notes in between appointments when the data is fresh in his mind, but is not always afforded that luxury. To combat it, he has stayed at least an hour after end of business of late, or rather the last two weeks. And Sarah Sawyer has noticed. When asked, he insists that it has to be done and the surgery has been busy, which is true. But if he’s honest, he hasn’t been very keen on going home immediately at five. To Sherlock.

John drops his pen on the file and rubs the heels of his hands over his eyes. It’s a strange thing to reason through and doesn’t make much sense when he thinks about it. It truly is as though nothing between he and Sherlock has changed. Conversation still flows easily, they still work on cases flawlessly, would rather be at one another’s side than with anyone else. The sex is still spectacular and had with more or less the same regularity. It’s as though Sherlock did not actually tell John, in so many words, that he no longer wants to marry him.  **Ever.**

John buries his face in his hands. He feels sad and lonely. Has done since that night. It’s easy enough to ignore all day at the surgery, but as his workday winds down, he is overcome with despair and the desire to see Sherlock. But it hurts him to be with Sherlock. John tries to ignore it when they are together with mixed success. The hurt makes him tired and miserable. 

So, the surgery closes and he stays to work, or has coffee with Sarah or other colleagues. Sherlock has texted a few times with a case and John has been fine. He is sucked into the danger and intrigue, and forgets his problems if only for a little while. They always come back. Sometimes John wakes in the night from a dream of his life with Sherlock. Husbands solving crimes, laughing as they make dinner together, snuggling on the sofa while holding left hands and admiring their wedding rings. Caressing hands, letting fingers delicately roam over the rings that bond them together. John knows it’s stupid. They are already bound to one another and always will be. He shouldn’t need this to be happy, but when he wakes on these nights… He is overwhelmed with sorrow. It suffocates him and he has to leave the bedroom before he can breathe again. He’s certain Sherlock knows he has finished out most nights of the last two weeks on the sofa, but the detective has said nothing.

“John?”

John snaps his head up to see Sarah standing in the doorway with a worried look on her face. He quickly smiles and wonders how long she has been there.

“Hey. What’s up?”

“I’m leaving a little early. Janine is still here and will let you know when the last patient is ready,” she explains. “Are you okay to close down?”

“Yeah, of course,” he replies nonchalantly, blowing out a dismissive breath. “I’m fine. Been doing it a lot anyway.”

“Speaking of…” she leans against the door frame and looks at him with concern. “You have had a lot of late nights. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he shrugs.

“You’re sad, John. So sad.”

“I’m fine,” his eyes locks on hers with trepidation.

“It’s Sherlock, isn’t it? Is he okay? Has something happened?”

“Yes. No. He’s fine.”

“John,” she looks at him sternly, “if you won’t talk to me, you have to talk with him. I hate seeing you this way.”

John sighs.They would never have worked as a couple, even without Sherlock’s interference. However, they kept their working relationship after the Blind Banker case and grew to be very good friends over the last couple years. John loves having Sarah as a friend, and they often get together with her husband and Sherlock for double date kind of outings. But damn it, if she hasn’t grown to know John too well.

“Sarah, I’m fine,” he says firmly. “It’s nothing to worry about, okay?” He pauses and gives her an expression of reassurance. She studies him carefully, worry still plain on her face. John smiles. “Now, get home to Jeff and that gorgeous baby of yours.”

“John,” she gives him a hesitant smile and decides a different tact might work better. “You and Sherlock need to come for dinner again soon. I know what he says, but Sherlock’s really a softy. He loves Madeleine.”

“He adores Madeleine,” John grins, leaning back in his chair.

“He’ll be a wonderful father one day, John,” she adds cheerfully. John looks at her with startled eyes and tight lips. “And husband.”

John halfheartedly laughs out a sigh and mumbles without thinking.

“Not with me.”

Genuine alarm passes over Sarah’s face. Her eyes fill with dread and worry.

“What? Why would you say that?”

“John?” a young woman with dark hair named Janine Hawkins suddenly appears in the doorway next to Sarah. She is looking between them with hesitant eyes, concerned about interrupting their conversation. Sarah straightens up quickly and smiles at Janine. “Uh...sorry to interrupt.”

“No problem,” Sarah laughs. “Need something?”

“Um,” she looks at John. “Your last patient is here. He’s finished the paperwork and is ready for you.”

Thankful for a reason to leave the room, John rises and approaches the door. Sarah steps to the side and Janine hands him the patient’s paperwork firmly attached to a clipboard.

“Thanks, Janine. You don’t have to hang around here until I’m done. Go on home. I’ll close up.”

“Are you sure?” she asks with a hesitant smile. He nods. “Okay. Thanks. He’s in room three. A Mr. Robert Johnson, ongoing indigestion.”

“Thanks. Good night, you two.”

John’s off down the hall and disappears around the corner. The two women watch all the way with dual concerned expressions. Sarah turns to Janine almost immediately.

“You and John have gone for coffee a few times, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, every now and then,” Janine tells her. 

“I know this is a lot to ask, but would you mind hanging around tonight? Maybe trying to get him out for an hour or two? Maybe get him to open up a bit?”

Janine eyes her suspiciously, like she wonders what Sarah is playing at. Or perhaps, like she suspects her of trying to be a matchmaker.  

“I know how it sounds, but it’s nothing like that,” Sarah explains rapidly. “I’m a schemer to be sure, but I’m really just worried about him. He’s been so sad and I think it has something to do with his boyfriend.”

“I don’t know, Sarah,” Janine shuffles her feet, “you’ve known him a lot longer than I have. If he doesn’t want to tell you, why would he talk to me? Plus, I don’t want to butt in.”

“Okay, but you don’t know Sherlock. You don’t spend time with both of them. John doesn’t have to worry about prejudicing you against him or creating any weird tension at get-togethers. There’s no real risk.”

“Mm. I guess I could give it a try. I’ve been a bit worried too, to be honest. I’ll stay awhile and let you know if anything comes of it.”

“Oh, thanks, Janine,” Sarah touches her brow in relief. “You’re a lifesaver!”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she laughs just as Sarah’s mobile sounds. She glances at it and her eyes widen.

“Oh, shit. I have to get going. Thanks so much, Janine. I owe you one.”

“No problem,” Janine laughs again. “Have a good weekend.”

***

John looks over the symptoms form as he walks to exam room three. Sounds like a classic case of chronic heartburn and indigestion, textbook in fact. John’s pace slows as reads over the patient information again. He pauses in front of the exam room door when he realizes the handwriting looks familiar. Had this Robert Johnson been to the surgery before? And, if so, why wouldn’t he already have a file? John smiles as he opens the door and walks in.

“Hi, I’m…Mycroft?”

“Hello, John,” the older man greets him in a mild tone.

“Uh, hi,” he closes the door. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m afraid I have some grave news.”

“Sherlock?” John’s eyes are alight with worry.

“The Detective Inspector.”

“Greg? What is it? Was he…Mary.”

“She was found dead in her cell this morning,” Mycroft informs him in a somber voice. John’s mouth falls open. Mycroft lowers his eyes to the floor. “She was murdered in the night by three inmates who were promised freedom, new identities, and a hefty sum. Their bodies were quickly discovered in a ditch not far from the facility.”

“Their bodies?” John raises his brows, studying Mycroft with a curious gaze.

“Silenced by the man who hired them.”

“Oh, Jesus,” John breathes. “But Magnussen is dead. Who would’ve hired them?”

“Templeton Morris, a ghost from her past. She betrayed him years ago and left him for dead,” Mycroft’s upper lip twitches minutely in disgust. “We have not yet located him.

“My god. Does Greg know?”

The elder Holmes shifts his stance a bit and looks at John directly.

“I thought the news would be better coming from a friend, considering its gravity.”

“Yeah,” John is nodding, “you’re right.”

“He’s at home alone, watching some ridiculous sporting event.”

“Is he? Spying on him, are you?”

“Under the circumstances, I thought it best to know exactly where he is so you can reach him quickly.”

“Right,” John glances at the clipboard and raises it as he looks back to Mycroft. “This is all rubbish, I assume.”

“It is.”

“I’ll be off then,” he opens the door, but stops. “Are you going to tell Sherlock?” 

“I think you are rather better suited to that task,” Mycroft clears his throat and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable with the idea. John faces him fully and frowns. Neither brother has so much as phoned the other since they argued after the mass murder at Magnussen’s pool. 

The pool. John can feel his heartbeat speed up. He fights to keep his breaths slow and even. He will  **not** have a panic attack in front of bloody Mycroft Holmes, not even a mild one. 

“You can’t avoid him forever. He’s your brother,” John tells him, getting himself under control. He thinks he managed to hide it, but can’t be completely certain. In any case, Mycroft’s expression reveals nothing. Well, nothing but sadness and regret, that is. Perhaps he is too distracted by his own emotions to notice John having trouble with his.

“He doesn’t want to see me, John,” Mycroft tells him. John opens his mouth to answer, but the older man cuts him off. “I really must go.”

“Okay,” John sighs. “I’ll see you out then.”

***

Locking the surgery’s public entrance behind Mycroft, John walks back to his office for his coat and keys. He thinks about his near panic attack as he walks, shutting off lights here and there as he goes. It started happening a couple of days after Sherlock told him he never wanted to marry. They were in the lab with Molly, working on a case and she mentioned how she’d taken up swimming laps in Mycroft’s pool. Sherlock had his nose buried in a microscope and didn’t seem to notice when John started breathing heavily, but Molly noticed. Just like she noticed the beads of sweat dotting John’s brow. He assured her he was fine and agreed to have a sitdown to avoid talking about it further. Fortunately, Sherlock piped up at just that moment with a question that drew Molly back into the case and away from John’s panic.

John hadn’t understood it at the time, but then the dreams started. Sometimes he is in the pool, being held under by strong hands he can’t see. Then Magnussen’s face appears mere inches from John’s and he gasps in enough water to fill both his lungs. He convulses and struggles as Magnussen watches with those dead eyes, a sinister grin spreading too far across his face. John awakes thrashing and gasping, reaching for help that always comes in  the form of the dark-haired man sleeping next to him. John always manages to get to sleep again, but then wakes an hour or two later with feelings of sadness and ends up on the sofa.

John has told Sherlock about that dream, but not the other one. Not the one where John is standing next to a quiet pool with Semtex strapped to his chest and back beneath a heavy winter coat. Sherlock stands before him, but he is not holding a gun like he did in the real world. Instead, the detective is handcuffed and unarmed, and Moriarty is behind John, holding his arm around John’s neck. His voice echoes through the room and he tells Sherlock in a loud voice that he is going to fuck John right there. John may never tell Sherlock about that dream.

John shakes his head slightly to clear it as he walks down the hall to his office. The door is open when he arrives and he walks right in without even thinking. Instead of finding it empty, he is startled to find Janine Hawkins waiting for him. She stands quickly from where she sat in the spare chair, wringing her hands nervously.

“Hi, John,” she says quickly. “Mr. Johnson’s still here?”

“No, I saw him out. Uh, are you okay?” he asks furrowing his brow. “Do you need to talk?”

“I was going to ask you that,” she answers with a little laugh.

“Me? No, I’m fine.”

“Oh, really?” she responds with a knowing look.

“You’ve been talking to Sarah,” John crosses his arms.

“Didn’t really have to, but yeah. You wanna have coffee and talk?”

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t really have time. I need to meet someone.”

Now Janine’s arms are crossed. She taps her foot and looks at him skeptically.

“Seriously? Because Sarah is right. Something has really been bothering you. What is it?”

John sighs and walks behind his desk, laying the clipboard on it.

“It’s nothing. It’s…it’s nothing.”

“Something about your boyfriend?” she suggests quietly, taking a step forward. John fixes her with startled eyes.

“You **have** been talking to Sarah.”

“Look, I can tell there’s something wrong, but didn’t want to pry. I do agree with Sarah though. You need to talk to someone,” she holds up her hands, palms out, as if placating. “I won’t judge, I promise, and I don’t know him. Nothing awkward later.”

“Janine, I appreciate you wanting to help, but…”

“Oh, come on, John. We haven’t known each other as long as you and Sarah, but we’re friendly enough. We’ve worked together now for months.”

John raises his brows and gives her an appreciative, but uncertain look. Sizing him up, she moves in front of the door and gives him a determined look.

“I’m not letting you leave until I get some satisfaction.”

“It is about my boyfriend,” he sighs, his shoulders sagging. He shakes his head as he continues. “I’m sorry, Janine, I just don’t feel comfortable telling you and I really do have to meet a friend.”

They stare at each other in silence. John raises a brow, his face a mixture of confusion and annoyance. Not even sure what to make of her insistence that he reveal this deeply personal part of his life, he shifts his weight and searches her face. She does the same and, perhaps observing his discomfort, takes a step closer.

“Look, I’ve had bad boyfriends before and I don’t know everything about yours, but that doesn’t matter. You only have a couple of choices here.”

Certain he’ll regret asking, he reaches back to ruffle the hair on the back of his head.

“Oh, yeah, and what might those be?”

“You can break it off,” she says firmly and without preamble. John visibly flinches. “Or you can talk to him. It’s that simple. You can’t go on being miserable. The long nights of not sleeping, of feeling lonely on the couch, of wanting to say something and not knowing how. It’s eating you alive. You know it is. Sarah has seen it,” she pauses. “You need to talk to him, John. Keeping it in never helps.”

“That’s pretty sound advice,” he replies, shifting his feet again. Janine lets out a little laugh.

“It’s the kind of advice you’d give me, or anyone else here. Beside, I said I’d had bad boyfriends and I’m a master at avoiding conflict,” tilting her head sincerely. “Go talk to him, John. You really seem to love him. He must be worth it.”

“He is,” John smiles genuinely. Janine smiles back and moves away from the door.

“I’d better let you get on your way then. I’ve held you hostage long enough.”

They both have a quiet laugh as John pulls on his coat and walks to the door. They both walk out of the room and John pulls the door closed, making sure it is locked before he turns to Janine.

“Look, um, thanks. I know I didn’t even tell you anything, but what you said..it helps. Thanks.”

“Just promise me I’ll get to meet this lucky man one day,” she smiles. “No judging, I promise.”

“Okay,” John laughs. “Come on. Let’s get outta here. It’s been a long day.”

***

Greg Lestrade has just poured himself a drink. After a long day at New Scotland Yard, he’s sitting in front of the telly in his flat. It’s tuned into a rather heated rugby game, which he typically finds entertaining. He had hoped it would take his mind off things, but it has failed miserably. He tells himself not to think about Mary for the umpteenth time and takes a sizeable drink of the amber liquid in his glass. His eyes are fixed on the telly without really seeing the game and he’s about to take another drink when there is a loud knock on his door.

“Thank god,” he mumbles to himself and rises. He walks to the door swiftly, placing his drink on the hall table. Best to not answer the door holding a scotch on the rocks, for the sake of appearances if nothing else. He opens the door to a familiar face. “John? Hey. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Hi, Greg. Do you have a minute?”

“It’s not Sherlock is it?” he grimaces. John’s eyes widen at the unexpected question.

“No. No, it’s not Sherlock. Look, can I come in?”

“Oh, yeah! Yeah, sure. Sorry, mate,” Greg steps aside and motions for John to enter. Closing the door, he leads his friend to the sitting room and can’t help but notice that John is tense, ill at ease. “Would you like a drink?”

“No, I’m fine. Thanks,” John’s hand goes to the back of his neck absently, his face is the picture of a man who isn’t certain where to begin.

“Out with it then,” he says with his hands on his hips and his best DI tone. “What’s he gotten himself into this time? You two have been a bit off lately. I mean, still brilliant on a case, but something’s up. What’s he done?”

John stares at him blankly for a split-second and then shakes his head.

“No, it really isn’t about Sherlock. I…” he suddenly looks very sad. “Look, maybe you should sit down.”

Something in Greg’s mind clicks and he begins to read all the signs his distracted mind had overlooked. He plants his feet and looks at John with an expression of steel, much the same as at crime scenes.

“What is it, John?” he asks in a firm and steady voice. John rests a loose fist on his own lips in a measured pause while he considers how best to give his friend this news. Greg’s stony stare makes him even more uneasy and he knows immediately that the best way is to just say it. He sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face.

“Mary…Mary’s dead.”

Greg’s eyes fall closed slowly. His whole body sags and he turns toward the sofa, away from John. The doctor takes a step closer, trying to see Greg’s face, but he stops dead when a broken voice cuts through the air.

“How?”

“Some inmates were paid to kill her. They’re dead. I don’t know all the details. I’m sorry.” John slowly steps closer. Greg’s face is buried in his hands until he feels a hand gently rest on his shoulder. Greg raises his head to look at his friend. “I’m so sorry.”

“Who?” his voice sounds stronger with growing anger. John wets his lips, trying to gauge the man’s reaction. “Not Magnussen.”

“Someone from her past,” John replies carefully. “Someone Mycroft didn’t expect.”

“What’s his name?” Greg’s voice catches in his throat.

“Greg, I don’t think that’ll help,” John says softly.

“Goddammit, John!” Greg shouts, furiously wrenching away from him. He turns to face him and demands in a dangerous voice. “I. Need. A name.”

John drops his hands to his sides and bites the inside of his cheek. He shouldn’t tell Greg. He knows he shouldn’t. It won’t help, but at the same time, John owes his friend the honesty he has always given him. He sighs and looks Greg straight in the eye.

“Templeton Morris.”

Greg stares straight ahead, clenching his fists. Neither man says a word. Greg’s body starts to shake. John watches quietly, wanting to comfort his friend, but giving him the space he needs and clearly wants right now. They stand this way in silence for several minutes. Greg has stopped shaking, but has made no attempt to acknowledge John’s presence. As he continues to watch Greg, John’s mind starts flooding his thoughts with moments in their friendship that he apparently stored away for safekeeping. Sherlock had tried to explain how his mind palace works one day when they were both still in hospital, but gave up when John didn’t seem to grasp it at all. Maybe John had really understood after all.

 

_ “Hey, who’s this?” _

_ “He’s with me.” _

_ “What?” _

_ “Dr. John Watson.” _

_ “Lestrade, Detective Inspector. So what are you doing with him?” _

 

_ “I always knew he was capable of so much more, John, and you’ve helped him do it. You’ve helped him find his humanity. However you may see it, you are good for him. The best.” _

 

_ “John, I’ll tell you the same thing I said to Sherlock this morning. Tell him. Talk to him. Work it out together. You’re a team. He can help you figure this out and find peace.” _

 

John finally manages to turn off the flow of memories. He focuses his gaze on the man at his side. He has helped John through so many things in the last year, too many, and always with such incredible knowledge. He’s helped Sherlock too. Greg Lestrade has truly become a wise older brother to both of them, and the best friend they both needed once they became lovers. John flattens his lips into a straight line. There must be some way to help Greg now and John is going to find it. Several minutes pass as John considers this, but his train of thought is broken when Greg finally speaks again.

“I want her body,” his voice is hoarse, “so I can bury her.”

“Of course. I’ll speak with Mycroft. He will do everything in his power to bring them back to you.”

Greg raises his sullen gaze to look at John. The doctor sighs loudly. Greg is shattered. His cheeks are streaked with tears and his eyes are blood red.

“Oh, god. Greg…” he begins, but Greg interrupts by wrapping John up in a desperate hug.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps into John’s shoulder. “I don’t expect you to give a shit after what she did, but I…I just…”

“It’s okay,” John folds his arms tightly around his sobbing friend. “It’s okay.”

***

It’s nearly 10pm when a knock sounds on the door to 221B. Sherlock rises from where he sits at the dining table and strides into the hall. He has not heard from John since he rang to say that Mary had been murdered and he was on his way to Greg’s flat. It will be a very difficult evening for both John and Greg. Sherlock does not expect him back until after midnight when Molly’s night shift, a favor to a friend in the morgue, ends and her watching-over-Greg shift begins. She had phoned around seven, probably her break for dinner, and told him of her plans. She also mentioned that Mycroft is out of the city for the night attempting to force an associate of both Mary and Morris into revealing Morris’s whereabouts.

Given that all of the usual suspects are accounted for, and the fact that Mrs. Hudson seldom waits for someone to open the door after she knocks, Sherlock quickly runs through the possibilities of who is requesting entrance to his flat. Not Mike Stamford or Donovan. God, not Anderson! Perhaps a client. He opens the door to find a woman nearly ten years his junior looking at him inquisitively.

“Good evening.”

“Hello,” she replies, her eyes darting to look behind him. “Is Dr. Watson here?”

“No, he’s not. Are you in need of medical attention?”

“Oh. Oh, no,” she smiles, looking somewhat nervous now. “I work with him at the surgery. Janine Hawkins.”

“Ah, yes. I believe he has mentioned you on occasion.”

“And you must be Sherlock.”

“I am.”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” she offers her hand. Sherlock gives her a small, but friendly smile as they shake hands.

“Likewise. Always a pleasure to meet one of John’s coworkers and...friend?”

“Yes! Yes, right,” she laughs, but then bites her lip. “Um, when do you expect him back?”

“Approximately two hours from now,” he watches as she chews her bitten lip, trying to decide what to do. He is reminded vaguely of Molly when he first met her, which is why he doesn’t simply say good evening and close the door in her face. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. I’ll just catch him at the surgery. Good night.”

“Wait. You could leave him a note. Or just tell me? I have a very good memory.”

“I’m sure you do,” she laughs nervously, “but it’s not really…”

“A note then. Come in,” he turns and begins walking to the dining area. He turns a bit and calls back over his shoulder. “I won’t be a minute.”

Sherlock walks quickly to the table once he reaches the dining room and grabs a half sheet of paper. With the paper in his hand, he finds himself questioning Janine’s motivation for calling on John at such an hour. A boyfriend she wants to discuss or someone at the surgery? John never made it sound as though there was any interpersonal conflict at his workplace. She seems quite nervous. An ethical concern? Doubtful under Sarah’s watchful eye.

Sherlock stops dead, staring straight ahead with a brow raised. Details. All the little details he had observed, but ignored twirl violently through his mind. The pitch of her voice when told John was not home. She may want to see him, but is pleased he is not at home. Incongruities in her speech pattern. Hiding an impediment or accent. A slight twitch at the corner of her mouth. Not nervous, but amused. Excited even. Her posture as they spoke. So stiff, back straight. Even when she said good night, she had not turned to leave. She is hiding something. Something long. 

Sherlock’s mind snaps into focus on his surroundings when he hears a noise behind his back. The sound of a sword being pulled from its scabbard. He turns his head until his chin is even with his shoulder. Two swords. One long and one short.

He turns slowly and faces exactly what he expected. Janine stands just inside the room, ready to attack. Her face and demeanor entirely changed. Where there were once soft lines and hesitant movements are now hard eyes, set jaw, and lethal confidence. They stare one another down without a word. With her head angled slightly forward and down, Janine’s eyes study Sherlock carefully from beneath her lashes. Sherlock furrows his brow minutely. Something familiar in those eyes. Calm, mischievous and yet, menacing as though the mind of Jack the Ripper hides just under the surface.

Sherlock’s eyes widen in disbelief as he sees Janine for what she is. His lips part in shock and a wicked grin spreads across her face. When she addresses him, it is with a pleasant Irish lilt, unbefitting of her devilish smile.

“Hello, my name is Janine Hawkins Moriarty,” she says the last name with flourish and gives him a slight bow, tightening her fingers around each sword. “You killed my brother. Prepare to die.”

The swords tilt forward slightly. Sherlock’s muscles are wound so tightly they could snap like a wire. Janine’s body suddenly springs forward as Sherlock jumps back and raises his hands defensively. They move until Sherlock’s back slams against the wall, forcing the breath from his lungs. The swords criss-cross at his neck, nearly touching his pale skin. They stand frozen in silence once more until Janine lets out an ugly laugh.

“I’ve always wanted to say that,” she cackles, the tension melting from her face to be replaced by angry glee. She pulls the swords away from the detective and holds them at her sides comfortably. She looks as though she could just as easily be standing with her hands in her pockets. There is a gleam of barely controlled, maniacal anticipation in her Moriarty eyes. “Dramatic, I know, but I have a certain flare…for the dramatic.”

“A characteristic you share with your mad brother,” Sherlock comments, cocking a brow. She seems to ignore the gibe.

“I know right,” she jokes before her smile fades and her eyes harden into a vicious glare. “All he wanted was to be with the man he loved and you took that from him.”

“He kidnapped John. He tortured him.”

“HE LOVED HIM!”

“He was psychotic!”

“Shut up, Holmes. JUST SHUT UP,” she takes a quick step forward and lunges with the shorter sword. With no time to react, Sherlock gasps and tightens his gut for impact, but he feels no pain. His silver eyes stare into hers, their faces mere inches apart. With the precision of a surgeon, Janine has stabbed the wall right next to Sherlock’s belly, through his tailored shirt and attaching him to the wall. She blows out a breath in his face and laughs. It smells like oranges. “You murdered him and went right back to your life with HIS lover.”

Sherlock risks looking away from her, his eyes bouncing to various items within his reach, looking for something, anything he can use as a weapon. There is nothing! Nothing close enough. His eyes settle on his violin on a table by the window, but how can he get her to back away and give him enough space? His gaze flies back to Janine as she shakes her head slowly.

“You cannot be allowed to continue. You just can’t,” she echoes her brother’s words from the pool, giving him a sinister smirk. To Sherlock’s utter shock, she leans in and presses a hard kiss to his lips. She twitches the sword embedded in the wall toward his belly and cuts into the skin. Sherlock’s jaw drops and she thrusts her tongue inside, pushing at the sword the whole time. When she pulls back, she grins widely. “The kiss of death, Sherrrrrlock. I bet my brother never did that before he tried to kill you.”

She laughs again and finally takes a step back, yanking the sword from the wall. She backs away from the detective, her eyes locked on his, raising her weapons and licking her lips.

“Tell me, Holmes, do you know anything about swordplay? Maybe fencing, what with that posh upbringing of yours?”

Sherlock swallows and doesn’t take his eyes off her. His time has run out.

“Pity,” Janine fakes a frown and takes a step closer again. Sherlock’s back is still flat against the wall. He has nowhere to go. “I’d love to see some of your…talents before I kill you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good god! A seemingly innocent character is introduced and turns out to be a psycho killer?? Jane, isn't this a bit old hat for you? LOL. I know you're thinking it, but we're talking about Sherlock and John here. Murder and mayhem are the spice of life. And sex. Really, really good sex. Hmm. A hint at what's to come??? Come. Bahahaha! Oh, I'm feeling sassy tonight and maybe a little naughty.
> 
> But I digress. I know I spent a lot of time and chapters establishing Mary's character, even though we all knew she was going to be a villain. Why have I not done the same for Janine? Meh. There are more important things in this Part, so I wanted to jump right to the climax with her. I like Janine in the show, but could never get over the idea that she might actually be Moriarty's sister. After all, what did Magnussen have on her? He made reference to it, but didn't state anything specific. Entonces, I HAD to make her the evil avenging sister. Ha! And since nobody can get close to Sherlock, what better way to worm her way than to take a job at the surgery? Nyeh nyeh nyeh.
> 
> Poor, poor Greg. He's such a good man and doesn't deserve to be pulled into the life of a murderous bitch like Mary. Tears.
> 
> And then there's the other problem for John and Sherlock. How long will it take them to talk about it this time? Will Sherlock ever get his head out of his ass? 
> 
> Okay, so I didn't ask a lot of smartass Deadpool style questions, but this whole endnote certainly has that feeling about it, no? Needless to say, I love it. :D I have also recently discovered I love the show Firefly, but that is another story.
> 
> Happy reading, y'all and thank you for your continued love and support. Hope you love this Part too!  
> Much love, Jane


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm told even subscription to an author notifications aren't working, so I hope this comes to all of you somehow.
> 
> John comes home.

John walks into the flat at a quarter to one. He locks the door and hangs his coat on the usual hook. Stretching his left arm and shoulder, he walks down the hall to the lighted dining room.  While his war injury is the worst of it, all of his limbs are pained and heavy from the tension of the last five hours with Greg.  _ Greg.  _ John pauses for just a moment to think about his friend. He sighs and shakes his head, knowing he left him in good hands with Molly, but also knowing he needs to come up with a better way to help him. John hopes his brilliant flatmate has some ideas.

As soon as he resumes walking, his mind turns more toward thoughts of Sherlock and the conversation they must have. He’d like to put it off until morning. He really is exhausted, but John knows he has already delayed for too long. He drags his feet as he enters the dining room, expecting to see Sherlock at the table with tea and his laptop. The room is empty. His eyes pass over every shadow, any corners the detective may have tucked himself into.

“Sherlock?” he questions, his eyes still shifting around the room. He turns and starts for the sitting room, but notices the light on in their bedroom and veers in that direction instead. Perhaps he was very tired and fell asleep? It wouldn’t be the first time the detective has left lights on.

John sees Sherlock prone on the bed as soon as he enters. He simply stands for a moment and gazes fondly at his lover, a smile playing on his lips. John takes a quiet step toward the bed, believing the detective did indeed doze off waiting for him to come home. Then he sees the thin white ropes binding Sherlock’s arms, nearly invisible against his white button down. Another step and he sees blood stains on the sheets.

John all but falls forward, leaping onto the bed. He rolls Sherlock over quickly, but gently. The side of his shirt is clad with drying blood, although a small area near his waistband is still fresh. John pulls it loose from where it is tucked in his trousers and takes a good look at the wound. It seems to be clotting as well as it can, the bleeding has definitely slowed and is not dangerous, but it will require stitches. John turns his attention to untying the man’s arms so he can get a better look at the slices in the skin of his forearms. A quick look tells him they are from a razor thin blade. They are long and deep defensive wounds. There was a fight and Sherlock’s opponent had the upper hand, but whoever it was didn’t intend to kill. John glances around the room for an intruder and sees nothing. He should get his gun and search the flat, but his instincts as a doctor overwhelm those of a soldier and he remains at Sherlock’s side, checking his vitals and for other injuries. He lightly shakes the detective’s shoulders.

“Sherlock. Sherlock!” he says as loudly as he dares. “God. Sherlock, wake up. Look at me.”

John sweeps his hands through Sherlock’s curls, looking for a bump or laceration and finds both quickly. He smooths the man’s hair and leans close to try again to wake him. Not long after he begins, John’s head snaps up on reflex at a quiet sound from behind. Before he can act, the butt of a weapon comes down hard on his head. John tips forward onto Sherlock’s body and then rolls off to the side. His bleary eyes see the ceiling for a few seconds before the darkness envelops him.

***

John opens his eyes to a world out of focus. Not sure where he is and unable to move his arms, he blinks several times to clear them. Shapes become easier to see. He blinks again. Something in front of him is moving. John’s head is throbbing and what’s that noise? He closes his eyes and groans. The same sound over and over, but faster now. Fawn, Dawn, John. His name. _Sherlock!_

John’s eyes pop open and focus in on Sherlock, who is tied to one of their dining chairs. They are still in the flat. It is brightly lit and all curtains are drawn to prevent anyone in the neighboring buildings from seeing. John is laying on the floor in the middle of the dining room, his arms tied tightly behind his back. He struggles to no avail.

“John, answer me, damn it!” the detective demands. John looks at him directly.

“Sherlock,” he coughs. His voice is rough and grinding.

“Oh, John, thank god. Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he swallows a few times to wet his throat. “How long have I been out?”

“I have no idea. At least an hour since I’ve been awake,” Sherlock strains against his bonds and winces. John’s expression changes to an amalgamation of worried lover and concerned doctor in a blink, immediately remembering Sherlock’s injuries. “God, Sherlock, your head!”

“It’s fine.”

“It sodding is not. How dizzy are you? Do you feel nauseous?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock grumbles.

“You’re pale. How much blood do you think you’ve lost?”

“I’m always pale! John, it isn’t important!”

“Like hell it’s not.”

“John, listen to me! I appreciate your concern, but she’s sure to return now that you’re awake and I have a plan.”

“Hello, John. Welcome to the party.”

John turns his head quickly to see Janine Hawkins striding into the room. She comes right up to him in the middle of the floor and squats in front of the doctor. John is silent, watching her with both fury and disbelief as she helps him up onto his knees. She smiles and touches his cheek softly. She addresses him in her wholly unexpected Irish lilt.

“I’m sorry you and Sherlock haven’t had time to work through your problems. I did tell you to go right home and talk to him.”

“Janine, why? What…?”

“Moriarty,” Sherlock’s deep baritone answers for her. John’s eyes meet his steady gaze. “He was her brother.”

Shock paints John’s face. His eyes slide back to Janine’s. A jackal’s grin lights her face as she watches him. The more he studies her eyes, the more her grin broadens. Those eyes. He can’t take his eyes off of them. Maniacal and ruthless, nothing like the woman he has worked with for months. He tilts his head, taking everything in. Janine just waits until… There it is. A pain radiates through his chest as his heart seems to squeeze itself to a standstill for a fraction of a second and then pick up where it left off. Her eyes suddenly become the eyes that haunted his dreams and still do when he dreams of the pool. The eyes that moved over his body so many times during his captivity. John can scarcely believe he never noticed them before. Ice cold fear hardens in his veins and he is powerless to hide the terror that blooms in his own eyes.

“Ah, now he sees the family resemblance,” she smiles at Sherlock, who is struck mute by the uncontrollable emotion in John’s eyes. Janine looks back at John with a smirk. “Didn’t know you’d been sleeping with the enemy all this time? Sarah certainly didn’t realize what she was doing when she asked me to help you. I was going to wait a bit longer, but why put off the fun, hm?”

“What do you want?” John asks in a low voice, full of dread.

“Why revenge, Johnny. That’s the name of the game. The final game. The final problem,” she grasps his neck hard, nails digging into his skin. He barely registers the pain. “I’m going to kill your boyfriend for murdering my brother.”

Janine whips her hand away, dragging her fingers across John’s neck and tearing his flesh as she goes. He winces, but keeps his eyes locked on hers.

“Then you’d be killing the wrong man,” he sneers.

“John,” Sherlock warns, but John ignores him.

“Sherlock had nothing to do with it.”

“John!”

“Leave him out of this, Janine, please. Your revenge should be for me alone.”

“John, shut the fuck up!” Sherlock says loudly. Thoroughly amused, Janine flashes a grin at Sherlock.

“He’s so loyal and protective. I mean, really. Isn’t he just adorable?” she looks back at John. “I can see why Jim adored you, John. You are surely selfless to a fault.”

“Let Sherlock go,” he snarls. “I caused Jim’s death. No one else.”

Janine snickers and pulls a dagger from where it was hidden in her boot. She sweeps it up quickly and presses its point to his throat.

“Shut up. You must know there’s no escape for either of you. And you,” pointing at a struggling Sherlock without taking her eyes off John, “stop moving.”

The dagger presses closer into John’s throat to make her point. Sherlock stills as he watches a drop of blood slowly trickle down John’s neck and soak into the collar of his jumper.

“I know everything that happened on the island,” Janine informs them. Her eyes are still locked on John’s.

“Then you know how I got there and how Jim spent his time with me,” he sees recognition in her eyes and continues with barely controlled rage. “And you think that’s okay.”

“I think some of the greatest love stories have difficult beginnings.”

“Oh my god,” John says quietly in a voice bubbling between rage and disbelief.

“He loved you, John,” Janine draws away the dagger and moves closer to explain. “It was something he wouldn’t allow himself. Too many risks, he said, but you… You were different. Apparently, not just for him.” She glares in Sherlock’s direction. “He would text and tell me all about you. I was going to come meet you once you were more settled.”

“By more settled, you mean resigned to being raped and brutalized every 24 hours,” John comments with clenched teeth. 

“You would’ve grown to love him.”

John closes his eyes and actually winces as if in physical pain. Sherlock’s heart starts working its way into his throat. John should not have to remember and relive his torture this way. He should never have to see those eyes again.

“You know who is to blame,” he announces loudly. Janine looks at Sherlock with a measured expression. She takes a step or two away from John and places her hands on her hips. John’s eyes snap open to stare, wide-eyed at Sherlock. “I killed Moriarty.”

“Sherlock, no,” John growls.

“I pushed him over the cliff.”

“Let him, John. Let him confess his sins,” Janine purrs. 

“It’s my fault John wouldn’t love him. If he hadn’t been involved with me…”

“SHERLOCK!” John shouts. In a flash of movement, Janine is right next to John again pressing the dagger blade across his throat. Her other hand clutches his hair, pulling his head up high to stretch his tanned neck. Blood runs down to his collar all along the dagger’s flat blade.

“I told you to Shut. Up.”

Sherlock swallows and lowers his voice significantly in an attempt to diffuse the tension in the room. He has to draw Janine’s attention away from John and to himself. He must protect John at all costs.

“You have made yourself clear. Just do what you came to do,” he tries, but the coworkers completely ignore him and stare coldly into one another’s eyes.

“You are delusional,” John says harshly. “Just like your brother. Is it a family trait?”

Janine inhales angrily and presses the dagger closer. He’s unable to stop a soft gasp of surprise.

“Stop. Stop. STOP,” Sherlock strains against his bonds, watching desperately, and hoping he’s not too late. He can’t, he can’t do this. Not watch John die a few feet in front of him.

Janine steps away from John and strolls around the room. John’s head falls forward. Sherlock’s heart nearly stops, even though he knows John is still breathing and his wounds are superficial. He rubs his hands and forearms faster against the dining chair, trying hard not to move his shoulders and reveal his method of escape.

Sherlock has been doing it for some time now, since before John awoke. He discovered a rough spot on the back of the chair while running through plans of escape. He intended upon informing John of this fact immediately, but Janine’s interruption prevented it. Still unsure if the edge can even cut the ropes, he has little choice but to work at it and try to delay Janine as long as he can. However, watching her clean the blood off her dagger with a dish towel from the kitchen, Sherlock is quite certain that his time has run out. Janine drops the bloody towel to the floor and returns the dagger to the scabbard hidden in her boot. With a wicked grin on her lips, she struts slowly toward Sherlock.

“Soooo, Sherlock Holmes. My brother’s great nemesis. He thought only you were his intellectual equal. I suppose it’s only fitting that you killed him.”

“Moriarty also wasted time on verbosity,” Sherlock snarls. “If you intend to kill me, then do it.” 

“Oh, I will. No worries there. But I have something to do first,” she assures him, removing the belt carrying the full-sized sword from her waist and pulling it from its scabbard. Holding the sword with both hands, she stands to Sherlock’s side and lets it hover in front of his face. “Tell me what you see, Brainy.”

“You have sharpened it recently.”

“Very good. And it’s strong steel. What does that tell you?”

“You mean to slice off my head,” he looks up at her with dull eyes. John’s head snaps up with horror in his deep blues.

“In one go, yes. I guess brainy  **is** the new sexy,” she giggles. “But not you.”

She turns her back and advances on John. Sherlock’s eyes widen in terror and his jaw drops. Straining against the ropes and trying to push himself up with his feet. This cannot happen, cannot be happening

“No, no, no!”

Janine ignores his cries and carefully adjusts the position of an ottoman that has been rather conspicuously placed in the center of the room, so that it lies directly in front of John, who sits back on his feet and cuts into her with his glare. She just grins and pulls him forward by his hair until his head rests sideways on the piece of furniture.

“No, no, Johnny. Other way. Look at your boyfriend. I want him to see your eyes.”

Sherlock can see him sigh just before he turns his head. They lock eyes. He can’t seem to stop the emotion from pouring forth, his eyes pleading with John. For what, he does not know. There is nothing John can do. His hands are tied behind his back and Janine is wrapping a thick rope around his shoulders, securing him in place.

John looks at Sherlock with hard eyes. His beautiful, strong John. He knows Sherlock needs him to be a rock because Sherlock is lost in this moment with desperation for John’s life. So John will be a rock. His expression screams,  _ Pull yourself together, Holmes. You’ll be fine. Just think. Keep calm and think! _

Janine steps back from the doctor again and takes her sword in both hands. She carefully positions it over John’s neck and locks a pair of playful eyes with Sherlock.

“There. Now we’re ready. One solid stroke. His head will fall right about here,” she points with her toes. “Perhaps a flare for the dramatic is the family trait.”

She raises the sword in a flash and brings it down quickly, but stops just above John’s neck. Sherlock gasps and forces back the liquid pooling in the corners of his eyes, and the bile in his throat. Despite the stony mask that is John’s face, his body flinches, and with good reason. A slow trickle of blood runs down the side of his neck from where Janine’s blade just nicked the delicate skin. Sherlock’s eyes snap up to meet her sharp glare. His own experience with swordplay has taught him enough to know exactly how much discipline it took to pull that off. He fights off a shudder and berates himself.  _ Goddammit! Why can’t I control my emotions? _ But the answer stares him in the face as sure as John does. Sentiment. His fatal weakness. Not so fatal for him, however, more so for John. How much pain and torture could he have spared John by simply never having met him? Never offering him the flatshare?

“Have you seen a decapitation, Holmes? I’m sure you have, but has one ever happened right. Before. Your. Eyes.”

A low rumbling laugh emits from deep within her body. It mimics Moriarty perfectly. It’s a sound that is meant to rattle Sherlock, but instead, it turns his heart to stone. Suddenly Sherlock is back at the swimming pool years ago. John is on the ground, as is the bomb. Moriarty stands before him and John gives him a nod. Sherlock feels the same calm he felt that night when he made the decision to kill them all with one shot. He meets Janine’s eyes. John stares at his flatmate with wide eyes. He knows something has happened. Something is different.

“It’s true what they say, you know,” Janine continues. “The brain doesn’t die right away. You’ll have the chance to see John take one last breath, maybe cry one final tear once his head is on the floor.”  

Sherlock’s eyes are trained on Janine as she raises the sword. There is something deadly in them that she fails to notice. John watches intently, ready for whatever is to come. A sudden motion catches his eye, drawing it to Sherlock’s bicep, which jerks away from his body.  _ He’s free! _

Fighting with the ropes, Sherlock lunges off the chair. He dives over John’s body at Janine as the sword comes down, pushing the side of the blade with his arm, and knocking it off course. Sherlock and Janine fall to the floor. She raises the bloodied sword with one hand, but Sherlock slaps it away with his forearm and punches her in the face. He grabs her wrist tightly and squeezes. Janine strikes him back with her other hand and he loses his grip, but not before she drops the sword. Free from his grasp, she scrambles away. Leaping to her feet and pulling both her dagger and short sword, she swipes at Sherlock, but he rolls away and gets to his feet.

They stand a few feet from each other, both ready to pounce. John just manages to turn his head their way as the fight begins. Janine’s weapons are flying at the detective from every direction, yet Sherlock expertly dodges and deflects, taking only small nicks to his person. As John watches, he feels like an extra in an action movie. Kicks and spins and fists and where the hell did Sherlock learn to fight like this? And how the hell did John not know this before now?

Janine swings, the end of her blade slicing a long, but shallow wound across Sherlock’s chest as he pulls away from her quickly. The detective keeps on as if it didn’t happen, but John knows he won’t last without help or a weapon and struggles against his bonds.

“I underestimated you, Holmes. You aren’t just a brainy weakling,” Janine taunts breathlessly. She kicks him against the dining table and then presses her dagger to his throat, short sword flying. He manages to wrap his fingers around the dagger wrist and push it away, while his other hand wrestles the sword from Janine’s grasp. Then all hands grab at the dagger. Sherlock is clearly stronger than Janine, but she knows how to win against an advantaged opponent.

Janine kicks at Sherlock’s legs, knocking him off balance. He tumbles backward onto the tabletop. She climbs on with him and settles on his body, trapping him. They continue to struggle with the dagger, its blade jolting between their bodies. Sherlock is winning.

Janine thinks fast, knowing she needs the upper hand if she’s going to best him. Straddling Sherlock the way she is, Janine squeezes him between her knees effectively jamming one of them into the wound in his side. He groans loudly in pain and surprise, releasing the dagger. She takes the opening and turns the dagger in her hand, ready to thrust it down into Sherlock’s chest. 

“No!” John yells from the ottoman.

Thinking on his feet, the detective grabs both of her arms and thrusts them away. Even in his haste, Sherlock manages to time it just right so that the angle of her arms makes the dagger’s handle slam into Janine’s left eye. She cries out as he pushes her off his body and the table. She falls to the floor with a grunt and Sherlock rises from the tabletop as quickly as he can, but the uninjured Janine is faster. She leaps to her feet and steps away from the table to face Sherlock where he stands close by the window.

They both pause for a moment, sizing up the other, breathing hard. Sherlock stands tall in spite of the renewed pain in his side and stares down his attacker. John cries out his name as he watches Janine run at Sherlock with the dagger ready. It all happens so fast and yet, in slow motion. Sherlock twists his body, dodging the full force of the blade. Instead, he receives a glancing blow to his hip. Janine crashes into the heavy curtains covering the window. Sherlock spins, grabs his violin from where he saw it when Janine had him pinned against the wall earlier, and smashes it over the woman’s head. As thousands of pieces scatter around her body, her fingers drop the dagger, and she falls flat on the floor.

With the broken violin neck still clutched in his fingers, Sherlock stumbles backward against the wall in exhaustion. He lets his head fall back until it rests against the wall and looks up at the ceiling for a moment, trying to regulate his breathing and take in everything that just happened. He gasps suddenly when John’s face pops into his mind. Dropping what is left of the violin, he pushes himself off the wall and goes straight to the ropes that once held him. Back at Janine’s side in a flurry of movement, he ties her hands behind her back and then plucks the dagger from the floor. Soon he is next to John, cutting him free and dropping the dagger in favor of gently helping his doctor rise off the ottoman to sit on the floor beside it. Before John can say a word or even do anything, Sherlock immediately wraps his arms around him. He buries his nose in John’s hair and inhales, relishing in his musky tea-flavored and cinnamon scent.

A thousand thoughts rush through Sherlock’s mind. One of them is, again the question of how much of this could he have spared John by never having met him. However, it does not have the same impact it did the first time he thought it. Instead Sherlock’s mind barrels on past it, pointing out instead how much happiness he has brought John. How many smiles? How many laughs? How much pleasure and how much love?

He grips John tightly in spite of the pain in his side and his arms. He will never let go of this man. Never. And John must feel the same way because he is holding him just as tightly. Neither man can say how long they stayed that way, but both feel it is over all too soon when Sherlock pulls back. The sight that greets John is his own blood staining Sherlock’s white button down, not to mention a very concerned detective.

“God, John, your neck,” he scrabbles for the dish towel Janine threw to the floor and presses it against John’s throat.

“It’s fine, Sherlock. It’s fine.”

“It is most definitely not fine!”

“It isn’t deep. I’ll be fine,”  he grabs at Sherlock’s arms. “You need stitches. And your hip. Let me see your side.”

“John,” Sherlock begins quietly in a calming voice. John stops struggling to see his wounds and touches his fingertips to Sherlock’s bleeding chest instead. The detective looks down at himself and then back to John with soft eyes. “Superficial. All superficial.” He takes John’s face in his hands, the towel stuck on his throat, and caresses John’s cheeks with long thumbs. “I’m fine. We’re both fine.”

John’s eyes melt. When he opens his mouth to speak, Sherlock closes the gap between them and covers John’s lips with his own. He moves his mouth gently against his lover’s. He is warm and soft and perfect. They stay this way for some time, just being together in the moment and sharing something so calm and intimate as the adrenaline of being nearly killed subsides. Any quickened heartbeat is now the result of something else entirely.

“Sherlock, I want you in the kitchen,” John says breathlessly and the detective blinks his eyes wide, startled by how forward his comment sounds. John swallows audibly and continues. “Towels for your arms.”

The detective purses his lips. He hardly thinks ruining more towels is necessary. The slices on his arms are little more than scratches in Sherlock’s opinion, but he knows John is likely more concerned about the wounds in his side and hip. So, rather than argue, he helps John to his feet and into the other room. He immediately takes notice of John’s limp, but says nothing and lets the doctor examine each forearm, as well as his side and hip. Sherlock helps wrap a clean dish towel around John’s neck and then calls the police at his insistence. He ends up holding more towels to his side wounds while John limps to the loo to retrieve his medical kit. 

John makes quick work of cleaning Sherlock’s wounds, all of which are fairly superficial. Only two will need stitches. The slice to his chest is the last one John tends to before conceding to Sherlock. The detective then cleans the mars to John’s neck and tapes on bandages. Once everything has been dressed, John turns away to make the tea he mentioned, but Sherlock takes him by the shoulders and shifts his body so they are facing each other once again.

“John, why are limping? Where are you injured?” he asks in a firm voice. John just looks at him and then averts his eyes. “It happened when I deflected the sword. When Janine tried to…to behead you.”

“Damn it, Sherlock, I know when it happened!” he looks up into Sherlock’s eyes angrily. The detective merely gazes back matter-of-factly. Why is John trying to keep this from him?

“Tell me, John. Is it your back?” John holds his eyes for a moment and then lets them drop. Sherlock’s eyes go wide. A look of sheer panic crosses his face. “Oh, god. Not your ass.”

“Sherlock…”

“Let me see it.”

“Sherlock, no,” John gets loose and backs away. “I’m fine. Let’s just wait until the paramedics get here.”

“Injuries to your ass are unacceptable,” he advances on the smaller man. “Let me ascertain its severity.”

“NO. You are not a doctor and you aren’t exactly objective.”

John’s back hits the opposite wall and Sherlock crowds into his space, wrapping his long fingers around either side of John’s hips. He purses his lips and grows even more steadfast when his fingertips touch fabric that is wet with blood.

“John Watson, let me see your gorgeous ass before I bend you over the counter and look for myself.”

John’s body stills. He looks at Sherlock, startled.

“If you’re finished being childish…” he trails off when he sees that John’s eyes are dilated and there is a certain heat in his expression. Instead of being annoyed, as Sherlock expected, John is aroused. From John’s grasp at the small of his back to the unmistakable hardening against the detective’s thigh, Sherlock would say quite aroused.

John suddenly crushes their mouths together and takes Sherlock’s lower lip in between his own. They grip each other tightly, Sherlock pressing John’s body against the wall more forcefully. He gets his tongue into John’s mouth for a word edgewise, but quickly loses out to John’s obsession with sucking and licking his lower lip.

“God, you’re delicious,” John declares in between kisses.

“Mmph…” Sherlock’s hands slide from John’s hips to gently cup his ass. He wants to be mindful of the man’s injury, but absolutely MUST have that ass in his hands. As soon as his fingers give those perfect round cheeks a light squeeze, John begins making the most obscene sucking sounds with the detective’s lower lip. He suddenly shoves Sherlock and twists his own body until he has the detective pinned up against the wall. His hand grasps the back of Sherlock’s neck and hauls him down for a heated kiss.

Both are licking and biting. John’s hands tilt Sherlock’s head to deepen the kiss. Soon his fingers tangle in dark curls. Sherlock clutches at his ass just a little too hard, but it isn’t enough to stop John. He grabs Sherlock by the lapels and pulls him away from the wall, backing toward the nearest countertop. What he doesn’t consider is the height of the drawer handles in relation to the injuries on his bum. John lets out a short yelp of pain when his cheek hits the counters and the handle digs in.

“AHHHH!” John’s back goes ramrod straight and every muscle, from head to toe, tenses. His hands release Sherlock and shoot down to the countertop to push himself away from it. Understanding immediately, Sherlock steps back and looks at him with wide eyes.

“Oh, god, John! I’m sorry! Sorry. Are you okay?”

“I’m all right. It’s my own fault,” John grunts as Sherlock helps him down to his hands and knees on the floor. Sherlock is on his knees by John’s side.

“Will you be all right?” he asks with concern. “The police and medics will be here any moment.”

“I know, I know,” turning his head to look at Sherlock with a pained smile. “God, what you do to me.”

“What  **you** do to me,” he leans forward to gently press his smile to John’s and closes his eyes. The small man sighs and his lover whispers against his lips. “Will you let me see?”

John sighs a little deeper and pulls back to look Sherlock in the eye.

“Okay,” John reaches for his flies with one hand. Sherlock slowly and very carefully pulls the blood-stained jeans down to John’s knees and then slips the left side of his red pants down enough to survey the damage. 

“It’s not terrible,” his voice catches. “You’re going to need stitches.”

“I thought as much,” John groans.

Sherlock scrambles up to fetch a clean dish towel. He then drops to his knees again behind John and presses the towel against John’s still very delectable ass. John shifts forward like he’s going to crawl away, but Sherlock’s hand lands on his hip and pulls him back until his bum is flush against the taller man’s thighs. John glances back and rolls his eyes.

“Well, this isn’t going to look awkward when the police get here.”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock smirks. “I think it’s quite a picture from here.”

“I bet you do,” the corner of John’s mouth curls up. They hear sirens approaching, soon followed by squealing brakes and car doors slamming.

“How’s Greg?” Sherlock asks, passing the time. He presses the towel a little harder and John winces.

“How do you think?” John feels a nudge to his ass as they hear footsteps rushing up the stairs. “Sherlock?”

“Can you hold the towel while I let them in? I don’t fancy them kicking in the door.”

Nodding, John reaches for the towel. Once the doctor has a good hold of it, Sherlock scampers off and opens the door just as the Yard is about to knock. John hears Sally Donovan’s startled voice over Sherlock’s greeting.

“Jesus Christ! What the hell happened to you?”

“I did ring in a home invasion,” the smartass detective sounds nonplussed.

“She’s the one we need to arrest, I take it?”

“Yes. Janine Hawkins Moriarty.”

“Moriarty?” There’s an edge to her voice.

“His sister. She’s been working at the surgery for months now.”

“John wasn’t here though?!”

“I did ask for a medic,” Sherlock cocks a brow.

“Yeah, but look at you,” she answers in a smug voice. Sherlock sighs. “Okay, okay.  Where is he?”

“In the kitchen, but he might not want you…”

Sally pushes by him and shouts to the medics who just entered the flat. She points at Sherlock.

“You’re with this one and you’re with me. Come on,” barking as she strides to the kitchen with Sherlock on her heels and the medics close behind. John waves as they enter. He has changed his position a bit and is on just his knees, leaning against a bank of cabinets. He still holds the dish towel against his bum and has a cheeky smile on his paling face.

“Detective,” he says with a nod. “I ended up on the butt end of this one.” 

Sally just stands with her hands on her hips and lets the medic by. Sherlock and his medic are soon at John’s side as well. Both she and Sherlock look concerned, and John begins to wonder what the problem is. His injuries aren’t that bad.

“John, you’re pale,” Sherlock tells him by way of explanation. “Are you dizzy?”

“Not especially, but I don’t think the bleeding is slowing down much. I’m definitely going to need stitches,” he directs his last remark to the medic and then turns to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “I’ll be fine, just fine.”

Sherlock can’t stop a small smile from forming on his lips. John’s words are so calming and sure. The smaller man, made even shorter on his knees, leans in and stretches up as far as he can to brush a light kiss over his flatmate’s lips. He pulls back gently and gives Sherlock a loving smile. The detective flushes deeply and averts his eyes to the floor. John sharing a tender moment in front of one, Sally Donovan, is somewhat embarrassing, but not at all unwelcome. It is something Sherlock quickly decides he could get used to. He looks up again when John’s hand touches his. The doctor’s face grows increasingly pale, although Sherlock is fairly certain it is shock and not blood loss.

“Sherlock, let the medic check on you.”

“Only if you cooperate with yours,” he answers innocently. John lets out a little laugh and allows Sherlock to help him get onto his hands and knees again, whereabout he sees Sally standing over them with the hint a smile on her face.

“You two are the luckiest bastards I know,” she says with a chuckle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! I hope that was as exciting to read as it was to write. This chapter was a fun one.
> 
> Since KC is only one point off the patriots right now and I'm in a playful mood, I'm going to go DP style. Let's see how it works...
> 
> * Holy shit. Where DID Sherlock learn to fight like that?? (It's a bit like I felt while watching S4 and Sherlock kicked ass not only in the flat, but in that swimming pool at that guy's house. I think it was episode 1. It was like being Dr. Strange rubbed off in more ways than just bigger muscles to fill out his *ehhem* entirely new Sherlock wardrobe because his previous little Sherlock garb was too small for him and said muscles. My eyes are popping here.)  
> * First Mary and now Janine? Is John too trusting?? (But isn't that what makes him sweet and adorable John Watson?)  
> * What can they do to help Greg and will they be able to do so in time? (In time for what, Jane? Mwahahahaha! Don't you wish you knew?)  
> * Wait a minute. KC and the patriots? JaneOFCakes, the Empress of Evil, watches football on Sunday nights?? (You bet your ass I do and, if you ask nicely, I'll tell you my two favorite teams and the two I hate the most. I am a woman with many hobbies.)  
> * When will John talk to Sherlock and what will he say? (Is this the "I don't think we can be together anymore" conversation? AHH! Hearts breaking)  
> * When will these two get a moment's peace so they can just solve a normal case? (Jesus, Jane, settle down!)  
> * And most of all, when the fuck is Sherlock going to finally going to get his head out of his ass and propose to John?? (We all know that's what Sherlock really wants. Am I right?)
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed that. I certainly enjoyed adding in the comments that are supposed to be all of you asking me questions in return. :D I hope you all enjoyed the chapter and keep on coming back for the rest. I love you all and thank you for you support from the bottom of my heart. You help make my soul happy.  
> Much love, Jane


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A CASE! An honest to god case!!

The next few days pass as normally as they can. John, Sherlock, and Molly continue taking shifts with Greg. Mycroft even takes two or three. It seems the two older men have more in common than one would think and the times they spend together are some of the most comforting for Greg. The practice ends, however, after about a week when Greg informs his four friends that he is going on sabbatical for an undetermined period of time. He assures John and Sherlock that Sally, who will hold down the fort while he is gone, is under orders to bring them tricky cases and any murder that isn’t open and shut. In much the same way, Mycroft informs the duo that he has arranged for someone to keep an eye on Greg during his time away. Somewhat reluctantly, they wish the DI well and ask him to call if he needs anything.

A few days later, John and Sherlock have an unexpected visitor…

“John?”

“Hm?”

“What’s the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?”

John looks up from the newspaper in his hands to see Sherlock bent over the dining table, looking intently into a microscope. The table is littered with slides, culture dishes, and his laptop. John watches him for a few seconds and sees no trace of jocularity in his features. The man is completely serious. John almost smirks as he puts the paper in his lap and reaches for the mug of tea on the side table. He simply cannot pass up the opportunity to tease the detective. John furrows his brow and sips his tea.

“Well, that depends.”

“Depends? On what?”

“D’you mean an African or a European swallow?”

Sherlock straightens up and looks at John with interest.

“Does it matter?”

“Wha… of course it matters.”

“A swallow’s a swallow,” he shrugs. John purses his lips, glancing away and then back, almost as though he’s having an aside with someone.

“No, they are different, Sherlock,” he insists. The tall man crosses his arms. John puts down his mug and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Look, it’s a simple question of weight ratios, yeah? If the average adult European swallow weighs…”

There is a rapping at the door and John stops.

“Someone’s knocking.”

“Yes, ignore it,” his eyes remain fixed on John. “This is far more interesting.”

John rises from his chair with a quiet twitter of laughter that Sherlock doesn’t understand. He looks to his detective as he walks by, a brilliant smile on his face.

“Honestly, it’s about 24 miles per hour.”

Sherlock watches as John disappears into the hall. He frowns, his whole forehead wrinkling, including that cute crease that appears across the bridge of his nose.

“Why didn’t you say just that?” he calls. “John? How do you even know that?”

John walks back in and, at first, Sherlock thinks he abandoned the door to come back and answer his question, but he soon realizes that someone accompanies his doctor.

“Sherlock, look who’s come to pay us a visit.”

“Inspector Donovan, charmed, I’m sure.”

“Holmes.”

“Tea?” John offers.

“Thanks, but no,” Sally is all business. She stands firmly and watches them both carefully, but says nothing. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“For god sake, what do you want? If you are here to conduct a drugs bust or something while Lestrade is gone, get the hell out.” 

“Now, look, if you’re going to…” she begins in a sharp voice, but stops and lets out a slow breath. She looks from one man to the other and continues in a calmer register. “Whether we like it or not, we need to work together until the DI returns to duty.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the detective remarks petulantly. “You could just leave cases at the door.”

“Sherlock,” John gives him look of warning.

“Yeah, right, and accept my reprimand as soon as he’s back. No thanks, fre…” she stops short as John bristles, “Holmes. My time with the DI has taught me a lot and one of those things is that your help can be invaluable. Now, I have a case. Will you work with me?”

Sherlock looks at her steadily, no doubt deducing every detail of his life in the last month or so. To John’s great surprise, his expression softens minutely and he clears his throat.

“I must admit you have become more useful over the years. I was not surprised when Lestrade told me of your promotion.”

Sally glances at John, who gapes at her with his mouth wide open. She shifts her eyes back to Sherlock.

“Good. If you’ll come with me, I’ll explain on the way.”

“Fine, but not in a police car. We’ll follow in a cab. You can fill us in when we get there.”

“Fine,” Sally replies, rolling her eyes.

***

Sherlock and John follow as Sally leads them through a steel and glass office building. Various uniforms stand around at guard in the main floor lobby. Sally nods to a few of them as they pass on their way to the private elevator to the penthouse office. She starts talking as soon as the doors close.

“You’ve heard of Alan Piper of Crimsas Industries?”

“The American entrepreneur being investigated for smuggling, murder, and various other crimes?” John supplies and she nods. “The supposed mastermind behind the White Mafia in London?”

“Not just supposed, John. He is the mastermind,” Sherlock glances to Sally. “Or was. We’re going to his office.”

Sally and John’s eyebrows raise in unison.

“How the hell do you know that?” Sally asks suspiciously.

“Simple observation,” the detective replies. “The plaques in the main lobby identify the penthouse office as one of his more legitimate business enterprises.”

Sally doesn’t take her eyes off of him as she cocks a brow and purses her lips. She looks very nonplussed, indeed. John shifts his eyes from her to his detective and back.

“We’ve worked long hours to prove he’s our man. Months of work. We know it’s him and this morning, the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.”

“And suddenly he turns up dead.”

“Now that’s coincidental,” John remarks. “You’re sure it’s him? Maybe he faked his own death.”

“Oh, it’s him all right. Believe me,” Sally says snidely. She directs her next words to Sherlock. “We got the call around eight. His secretary got in and noticed something was off right away. She found him in his office. Bullet through the head, close range.”

“When?”

“We don’t know,” she sighs as the doors open. She walks into the rather large and impressively decorated office. Sherlock rolls his eyes as he and John follow.

One wall in the office is nothing but glass with a view of the city - The Thames, The Eye, Big Ben and Parliament. The opposite wall is mahogany shelving covered with books, statuettes, and abstract pieces of art. In the center of the wall is an enormous flat screen with luxurious leather seating positioned before it. Every piece of furniture is mahogany with a wide, Chippendale desk as the culmination on the far wall. A tall and thick wooden door lies on either side of it.

John glances here and there as they walk toward the desk, past officers dusting for prints and collecting evidence. He can’t help but note that there is no body to be found.

“You have examined the body in at least some rudimentary way,” Sherlock is saying irritably. “How can you  **not** have a time of death?”

“He told his secretary to go home around 6pm, so…”

“Sometime between six yesterday and eight this morning? Surely you can be more precise.”

Sally just gives them a look as she opens the large door to the left of the desk. A rush of cold air hits both men in the face and John, for one, can’t help but shiver. Sally motions to them and they enter slowly.

“A giant freezer?” John asks, dumbfounded as he looks around the walk-in. They see a very well-dressed dead man of advanced years sitting against the wall across from where they are standing. Sherlock surges forward to examine him.

“Cold obscures the time of death,” he mumbles to himself. He sets about his work, pulling on a pair of latex gloves Sally offered as he stepped by her.

“Why the hell does he have a walk-in freezer in his office?”

“Secretary said he liked his ice cream,” Sally shrugs. John looks from one wall to another, all covered with shelves packed full of ice cream in gallon, half gallon, and pint containers.

“Jesus,” John breathes, “he must really like ice cream. It’s a wonder he doesn’t weigh 35 stone.”

“John, what do you make of time of death?” Sherlock asks suddenly.

The compact doctor marches the twelve feet to the opposite end of the freezer and squats next to the body. He looks at the lips and then asks Sally for some gloves. He picks up each hand separately and studies the fingers. Once he is finished, John moves down to the right foot and removes the shoe and sock.

“Based on the frostbite, I’d say no less than twelve hours,” he rises to his feet. “That would make it about eleven last night at the latest, so sometime between six and eleven.”

“That jives with what we’ve found thus far,” Sally nods with a thoughtful expression.

“Mmm,” Sherlock hums, steepling his fingers under his chin. “The secretary’s still here?”

“Down a couple of floors in the conference room.”

They follow her to the conference room and question the secretary, a Miss Jane Marsh, but the interview yields nothing useful. As one uniform escorts her from the room, another enters and speaks quietly to Sally.

“Show her in,” she whispers. She looks to Sherlock and John as the uniform leaves. “The wife is here.”

The uniform enters with an impeccably dressed older woman. Sally steps forward, offering her hand, which the woman accepts with a strong grip.

“Mrs. Piper?”

“Sylvia Piper, yes.”

“Inspector Sally Donovan. I’m in charge of your husband’s case.”

“So nice to meet you, Inspector.”

“You’re a difficult woman to find, Mrs. Piper.”

“Yes, I must apologize. I was at a dress fitting and had my mobile on vibrate.”

“Dress fitting?” Sally asks conversationally as they walk to the conference table.

“Yes, my daughter is getting married later this month.”

“Oh, well, congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

Sally gestures toward John and Sherlock, who stand to greet the older woman as she and the inspector approach the table.

“Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. They’re assisting with the case.”

They shake the woman’s hand in turn while she gives them both a scathing look. She does not release Sherlock’s hand when expected and the detective meets her eyes, narrowing his own.

“I knew your mother,” she tells him cryptically. “We went to school together. I was Sylvia Prescott then. Did she ever mention me?”

“She did,” Sherlock’s faces brightens a bit. “Along with many, shall we say, interesting stories”

“Oh my! I hope she didn’t tell you the worst of them,” she laughs. “It’s very nice to meet you. We lost touch at some point, but still sent occasional letters about life and our children. I was sorry to hear of her passing, and your father. They were both wonderful.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock’s voice is warm, but John can tell it’s also a bit stilted. Discussing his beloved parents always leaves him a little worse for wear. Sylvia smiles at the detective sympathetically and finally releases his hand. All four have a seat around one end of the long, rectangular table.

“You know your husband was murdered in his office last night?” Sally begins the interview.

“Your officers told me he’d been shot, yes.”

“You don’t seem too broken up about it.”

“Forgive me, Inspector,” she smiles minutely. “I was raised in a high-ranking family in which the presentation of outward emotion was strongly discouraged. I’m afraid it has become something I can easily turn off and on like a switch.”

As Sherlock observes the woman, he notices slight reddening of the eyes under freshly applied eye makeup, and rouge to what were once tear-stained cheeks.

“Mrs. Piper, I don’t mean to insinuate, but I need to know where you were last night, starting at six.”

“Of course, Inspector,” Sylvia answers coolly. “I was in a meeting to discuss the upcoming release of a new fashion line until 6:30 or so. Around seven was dinner with friends at Gorgio’s. It was, oh, sometime between 10:30 and 11 before I got home. Then I had a glass of wine, packed for a bit, took a sleeping pill, and went to bed.”

“Packed?” John asks. “Are you going somewhere?“

“You were going to run,” Sherlock supplies. All eyes settle on him as he watches Sylvia Piper. “You and your husband. Were the attempts on his life getting too close? Or were the authorities?”

Sally and John’s eyes float back to Sylvia’s. She ignores them in favor of continuing her icy glare at Sherlock that would have easily crushed anyone else.

“I’m sure you are all aware of the rumors. My husband was the head of the White Mafia and the…authorities, as Mr. Holmes calls them, were on the cusp of proving it. My husband was afraid of nothing,” raising a brow at Sherlock, “except prison. Mongolia was to be our new home.”

“Mongolia?” John questions.

“No extradition treaties with the United States or the UK,” Sherlock tells him.

“Precisely. Alan had connections everywhere. Our children were staying here,” she straightens her spine proudly. “Our son plans to make everything with the name Piper a legitimate enterprise. He has never shared his father’s affinity for crime.”

“Dismantling an entire crime organization…” Sherlock studies her with steady eyes. “Difficult task. And dangerous.”

“Not dismantle, Mr. Holmes, disassociate from it. He’s already begun the work and he will succeed. I guarantee it.”

“How did you feel about giving up your own business, Mrs. Piper? You have built quite a fashion empire. Stepping down because of your husband’s indiscretions cannot have sat well,” he gives her a self-assured smile, “and, not being at all involved, you are free to do as you like.”

“I plan to leave it in my daughter’s capable hands,” Sylvia shrugs.

“Plan to. You’re still stepping down?” Sally inquires. Sylvia turns her head to look at her. 

“Yes. I’m ready to retire. Enjoy myself for a change. I deserve a break, Inspector. You may not think so, given the nature of your occupation, but the fashion world also carries a great deal of stress,” she glances around the table. “Do you have any more questions?”

“Can you think of anyone who might want to harm your husband?”

“He led the White Mafia,” Sylvia nearly chuckles. “Who wasn’t gunning for him, Inspector?”

“Yes, I know, but I was hoping you might help narrow the list.”

“Do you think your son had any interest in seeing him dead?” Sherlock asks experimentally. Sylvia’s demeanor changes in the blink of an eye. Clenching her fists on the arm rests and sneering at the detective. John shifts in his chair, physically feeling her hostility towards his lover and readying to protect him if the need arises.

“My son is beyond suspicion, Detective. Alan gave everything to him willingly. He may not have liked the decision to legitimize, but he respected that it was Joel’s decision to make.” She and Sherlock continue to stare, their eyes piercing through one another. “Do not interfere with my children, Mr. Holmes. You do  **not** need another enemy.”

Sally stands suddenly.

“I think we have all we need, Mrs. Piper. I’ll contact you with any developments. I assume you’ll be staying in London now?”

Changing her disposition on a dime, Sylvia rises and smiles warmly at Sally, shaking her offered hand.

“I will, yes. I wouldn’t miss my daughter’s wedding for the world.”

John and Sherlock rise with her. John walks around the table and offers his hand to the older woman, which she accepts readily.

“It was very nice to meet you, Mrs. Piper. My condolences.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I must say you are far better mannered than your colleague. Good bedside manner?”

“I try to balance things out,” John says in a friendly tone as something catches his eye. “That’s a nasty looking burn. Would you like me to look at it?”

She glances down at her wrist and runs her fingers over the wound.

“Oh, no thank you, Doctor. I put some salve on it last night. It will be fine, but thank you for your concern.”

“After you, Mrs. Piper,” Sally gestures toward the door. “I’ll have an officer see you out of the building.”

“Of course. Thank you,” Sylvia nods to John as she passes, “Doctor Watson.” She very nearly glares at Sherlock and speaks to him curtly. “Mr. Holmes.”

“I’d keep Mrs. Piper here a while longer, Donovan. Unless you want to release Alan Piper’s killer.”

All on eyes are on Sherlock. Shock is written on the faces of John and Sally, but the Inspector’s expression quickly becomes incredulous.

“What the hell?”

“Be careful, Mr. Holmes,” Sylvia mutters in a measured tone. “Be very careful.”

Her face is a mask of fury and danger. The look in her eyes would set a normal human being on fire, but Sherlock has never been normal. John steps closer to her and very slightly in between the woman and the detective. Sherlock stands before the accused with a grim expression..

“Your offices, Gorgio’s, and this building are each thirty minutes apart by cab, but only ten walking.”

“Ten minutes!” she barks with a sharp laugh. “For who? A sprinter?”

“Hardly. If you know the right routes, the right paths, and you looked into that very carefully. The walk from your offices to this building and from here to Gorgio’s each had to be ten minutes. You ended your meeting around 6:20 just to make sure you would have twenty to kill your husband. You knew his secretary would be long since gone by 6:30. She told us that Piper always made sure she stayed no later than six and, with nearly everyone else gone home, it was easy for you to walk in and get in the private elevator unobserved.”

Sylvia Piper curls her lip and looks ready to pounce on Sherlock, but she lets him continue without interruption. John’s senses are tingling. Sally watches all of them, scanning each one by one. Her eyes rest on Sylvia. Sally can sense the danger as well as John and she stays close.

“You either found Piper in the freezer or made him go in, and shot him. No mess and plenty of time to get to Gorgio’s. Just close the door and leave. The freezer obscures the time of death and makes it look like he could have died nearly anytime last night instead of as soon as you left your offices.”

Sylvia is smiling now. She looks at Sherlock with confidence, like she owns the world. Feeling the tension rise, Sally shifts closer to her and casts a look of warning at the two men.

“Mr. Holmes,” Sylvia begins loudly and with relish, “why. In the hell. Would I kill my husband?”

He fixes her with his intense silver eyes and steps closer. John follows suit, not sure what the older woman will do if her temper gets the better of her. Sherlock smirks and John gives him a look that says “you aren’t helping”, but the detective doesn’t seem to notice.

“Simple, Mrs. Piper. Your children,” he announces. John’s heart skips a beat when Sylvia’s eyes flash red. “You vividly demonstrated your protective nature when I implied your son might have had motive for murder, and you clearly intend to participate in your daughter’s wedding. When is it again? Later this month? You were going to disappear with your husband in mere days and yet, you went to a dress fitting this morning  **before** the police informed you that your husband was dead. You knew your husband was going to die before the wedding so, despite your departure for Mongolia having been planned for weeks in advance, you never bothered to cancel today’s fitting.” 

Sylvia Piper has stopped smiling. She isn’t really glaring anymore either, but she watches Sherlock with an icy gaze as he continues to prove her guilt. 

“And then there’s the burn on your wrist. The burn that our good doctor noticed,” he tilts his head in John’s direction, but does not look at him. John’s eyes widen as it suddenly clicks into place. His gaze goes to Sylvia’s wrist and then up to her face.

“It’s a freezer burn,” he says quietly. The large room fills with an uneasy silence that Sherlock breaks with his final words.

“A freezer burn that you received when you bumped into something in the freezer. I’m guessing a shelf, based upon its shape and size. In any case, it seals your fate.”

Sylvia stares at Sherlock with furious daggers. Somewhere in the last few seconds, her mood shifted again. She looks as though she wants to lash out and wrap her fingers around his neck, but something else in her eyes seems to know there is no point in doing so. She shifts her gaze to the floor for a moment and then back at the detective with a regal air about her.

“I have never been involved in Alan’s illegal business. For years, I ignored it and grew my own company while he built his mafia empire. I finally chose to rail against it when the risks became undoubtedly more dangerous, not just to Alan but to myself and our children. He ignored me. I did everything I could to shelter them from him. He never wanted to be a father, just have an heir for his tarnished legacy. Years of not caring or listening and then he tells me that WE have to leave forever. He didn’t care about Julia’s wedding. She is the child of my first marriage. Alan never cared for her, nor did he care if he never saw his own son again. But my children are everything to me and they would’ve been ripped from my life because communicating with us would give away Alan’s location,” she shakes her head. “No. I won’t give them up. Not for anything. Yes, I killed my husband, Mr. Holmes, and I’m not sorry.”

After a moment of silence, Sally steps close to Sylvia and lightly touches her arm.

“If you’ll come with me, Mrs. Piper. I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Alan Piper.”

“Of course, Inspector,” her voice is friendly and she cooperatively holds out her hands when Sally cuffs her. An officer walks into the room as Sally guides Sylvia to the door and begins to  read her rights. Sherlock and John watch until they are all out the door. John lets out a long breath and scrubs a hand through his hair. He sounds tired, but he beams when Sherlock turns to face him.

“God, that was refreshing. Seems like forever since we could just work a case. No danger, no risks, no hospital. Just an honest case.”

“Donovan shouldn’t need us for the report,” Sherlock states haughtily. “She was right here the whole time.”

“I wouldn’t say that, but I’m sure she won’t really expect us at the Yard until tomorrow,” John raises his brows. “Do you have something in mind?”

“I have some things to do this afternoon, but I thought dinner at Angelo’s around seven?”

“Sounds perfect.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh.... I'm sitting back on my sunchair with a margarita on the rocks, no salt. Idk about you, friends, but I feel very refreshed after that case. Just like John said, no danger, no risks, no hospital. Just a good, honest case...of murder. Well, you know... That's not what I mean. Murder isn't honest, but Sylvia Piper was when she confessed. That woman has balls. I like her. It's too bad she's a killer. Anyway, I wanted to say that this one time - case wise - it was not entirely original. I borrowed a couple ideas from two of my favorite old episodes of Murder, She Wrote and adapted them. I was very excited about ice cream the evening I wrote this chapter and just HAD to include it in some way. The result is a giant walk-in freezer in the opulent office of a mafia king. LOL
> 
> I also want to send a shout out to a certain Britcom from which I borrowed the conversation at the beginning of the chapter. Couldn't resist, couldn't resist. You know John is going to introduce Sherlock to that one at some point. How could he not?
> 
> Well, there may not be as many DP questions at the end of this one because it was a rather peaceful departure from the madness of my (as it would seem) usual chapter. Although, I maintain that if you go back you will discover more non-violent chapters than you expect. They just aren't as memorable. I swear I remember this work having more sex in it that it has had to this point. Arg! I will admit that I did cut one for sure. I remember reading it while editing and thinking, "No. No, they wouldn't do that here. Not now." So, I apologize, but if I'd left it in you would have been saying the same thing.
> 
> Anyway, we still have lingering questions! DA DA DAAAAAAA  
> * So things are kind of normal between the duo, but when will John TALK TO SHERLOCK?!?!?! You know it's all just festering right now. Will it blow John's top at some point or will he broach the subject rationally?  
> * Where is Greg? What is he doing? The poor man needs some time to himself, but will he get it or will someone interrupt it?  
> * So now that Janine has come out of the woodwork, what if there's another Moriarty sibling? Hmmm? Wouldn't that just be a kick in the pants?
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter and the next. Also, I have been receiving notifications again, so I'm hoping the system has been restored and you're all getting them again too. Much love, Jane


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go awry at Angelo's.

Sherlock is busy all afternoon, performing various tasks and errands. His last one, and perhaps the least desirable, is paying a visit to Mycroft. He strides into his brother’s office and sits in the chair across from him. Mycroft looks up from a file he is reading and raises an expectant, but sarcastic, eyebrow.

“New carpet,” is all Sherlock says.

“Well,” he begins, placing the file on the desk between them, “it did seem the thing to do after getting so much blood on the last one.”

“Indeed. Unfortunate business.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, brother mine?”

“How is Molly?” Sherlock meets his brother’s eyes. Mycroft looks at him blankly, but Sherlock knows it as surprise. “I haven’t been to Bart’s in some time.” 

“Ah,” he pauses for a long look at his younger, “She’s good. Perfect, in fact.”

“Good, good,” he shifts in his chair, clearly uncomfortable. Mycroft sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Sherlock, what do you want?”

“Are you happy?” Sherlock says quickly, nearly interrupting him. “The two of you?”

Mycroft’s eyes widen at his baby brother’s questions. He knows the curiosity is not so much about his and Molly’s happiness as it is how he feels about what Sherlock has identified as diminished mental capacity. But also happiness, yes. A bit.

“I am as I ever was, Sherlock. My sharpness has not changed,” he pauses as his brother frowns. “I make different decisions now and someday when Molly and I are parents, (Sherlock’s jaw drops) my decisions will change again. I don’t regret my feelings for Molly and I never will. Do you honestly believe you will ever regret your feelings for John?”

“No,” Sherlock states without hesitation. A moment of silence follows. Mycroft straightens his spine and leans forward to meet Sherlock’s eyes with an almost dangerous sincerity.

“If you repeat this, I will deny it and make your life a living hell.”

“And that is different from now in what way?”

Mycroft sighs loudly. It is the same sort of long-suffering sigh Sherlock does and he can remember their mother doing the same on occasion when their father would bring the result of an experiment gone wrong into the house. He almost doesn’t stop the smirk.

“I was…wrong about sentiment,” Mycroft’s words make Sherlock’s expression go very serious indeed. He blinks very slowly and briefly wonders if he hit his head on something. Surely Mycroft did not just say that. “It certainly cannot rule over logic, but…there is a place for it. It will make you stronger, Sherlock. John has made you stronger,” he sighs again. “He always will.”

The two men study one another. A sense of ease passes between them and a truce is struck without words. Sherlock’s mouth quirks into a small smile. He rises from his chair and turns to leave.

“I know.”

***

Sherlock and John share a spectacular meal at Angelo’s. John tucks into his favorite of shrimp linguine and Sherlock actually eats all of his veal parmigiana. Angelo insists on a candle for added romance, as usual, and brings them a bottle of John’s favorite wine.

The two men laugh and talk and reminisce. Neither wants the evening to ever end, so John agrees quickly when Sherlock suggests they share dessert. However, the atmosphere changes as they eat a tiramisu together. John grows thoughtful and quiet, not laughing as easily when Sherlock makes jokes or tells amusing anecdotes. When only a quarter of the dessert remains, Sherlock sets down his fork and leans forward with his elbows on the table.

“What’s troubling you, John?”

“Hm? Oh, I was just thinking about the case. Sylvia Piper and her children. They really were the center of her world.”

“Indeed. Having them in her life was worth killing for.”

“Right. And I was thinking of Sarah and Jeff and Madeleine,” he lets out a breath and puts down his own fork, looking at his flatmate with a hesitant expression. “It’s... Do you think you’ll ever feel that way? I mean, not… I mean, do you have any interest in being a father?” Sherlock opens his mouth to answer, but John quickly cuts him off. “Not right now, obviously. There’s so much…right now, but one day?”

He almost finishes the sentence ‘with someone’, but bites back the words. God knows the detective has no interest in pursuing such a life with John, and as painful as it would be if Sherlock says yes, he isn’t entirely sure why he is even asking. He watches his flatmate carefully. Sherlock doesn’t look the least bit shocked by John’s question. In fact, he doesn’t even look startled. John cocks a brow as Sherlock reaches for his hand where it lays on the table, covers it with his own, and gives it an affectionate squeeze.

“Of course. I would love to raise a child with you,” he says in a low, wistful voice. John’s eyes widen. “One day.”

“Me?” he jerks his hand away and sits ramrod straight, jaw clenching. Now Sherlock looks startled. He licks his lips and studies John with trepidation.

“Yes. I thought you would be pleased to hear it. Am I wrong?”

“What? You don’t even want to…” John stops abruptly and visibly struggles to collect himself. He huffs angrily. “It’s just an odd thing to hear from a man who doesn’t want his relationship to change.”

Sherlock presses his lips together in a straight line, his mind quickly searching for the best way to express himself. This dinner means so much more than just spending a quiet evening together or having a date after everything they have been through. If it is to be what Sherlock wants it to be, he must undo the damage he has done with his foolishness. He knows exactly how terribly he has hurt John. He couldn’t miss the signs - perpetual sadness, late nights at the surgery, and sleeping on the sofa most nights - but Sherlock hadn’t a taste of John’s anger until now.

“I’m sorry to have hurt you so badly.”

“I know that, Sherlock,” he replies quickly. “I just…I can’t…”

His eyes clamp shut as if in physical pain and he presses his lips in a tight line.

“John…” Sherlock begins, but is silenced when John’s hands are suddenly on the edge of the table, his eyes open. John starts to rise out of his chair, pushing himself up as his flatmate stares at him agog. John is going to leave. 

He has to stop him. He can’t let John leave. Sherlock doesn’t have a clue what he should say, but he knows what he wants to say and he must say it now before John turns and walks out of the restaurant. God knows what will happen if John gets out that door. Sherlock leaps to his feet and around the table toward John, wrapping his fingers around the smaller man’s arms. Both speak at the same time.

“I have to leave.”

“Don’t go.”

John is furious, with Sherlock and himself. His gaze falls to the floor. He should go. He should just go and accept that Sherlock will never want what he wants. He raises his eyes, full of hurt, and looks at Sherlock’s face to see his eyes pleading like never before.

“Please, John, just let me explain.”

Fuming and heartbroken, but unable to deny this man anything, John gets his arms free and sits again. He stares down at the table, his forearms folded on it in front of his body. Sherlock licks his lips and seats himself. He is leaning forward, forearms on the table in a mirror image of John’s posture. He takes in a deep breath and swallows. Sherlock cannot lose this man. This beautiful, kind, perfect man must be his forever. His eyes widen as he truly considers that for the first time. White, hot panic spreads through his mind.  _ Oh, god. I can’t lose John.  _ He exhales slowly to calm himself.

“I thought you were a weakness. That you would make me less objective, dull my senses. And I accepted that. Then Magnussen nearly killed you,” his eyes have a far away look. “I was so angry and scared. I lashed out at the easiest target and convinced myself that Mycroft was to blame, and that his love for Molly weakened him.” Focusing on John again, whose eyes are still on the table. His left hand clenching and flexing. “I was wrong. God, John, I was such a fool.”

John’s head snaps up. When their eyes meet, Sherlock uses his to give John all the love in his heart. Wishing, wanting to sweep his doctor up into his arms. Sherlock takes a deep breath and continues.

“You have never been my weakness. You make me stronger, better. A better man, a better detective, a better… You make my mind clear and sharp. Just having you at a crime scene helps to center me and your expertise is invaluable.”

“And what about my sentiment?” his jaw is tight and his eyes bore into Sherlock. “What about yours?”

An unexpected tear trickles from Sherlock’s eye. He had not realized his eyes were even filling, but now that he knows, he is not embarrassed. He answers John without missing a beat.

“Priceless.” He swallows. His expression is completely open. He has nothing to hide. “I used to think being human made me weak. I tried to be as much like a machine as I could. As much like Mycroft as I could because he was efficient and intelligent, and he convinced me the lack of sentiment was the best sentiment.”

John keeps his eyes locked on Sherlock’s, waiting for the moment when the detective back-pedals again and takes his place behind a curtain of apathy. John’s fury boils over as he waits for the expected and yet, a part of him understands. How many times did he have to guard his emotions and keep his distance in the army? He would’ve been destroyed otherwise.

But he let some people in and that’s what infuriates John. Sherlock resisted for years. They both did. But then he let John in, only to push him away again and again, and then what happened with Magnussen... When Sherlock made it clear that he didn’t want to marry John now or ever, John had quickly made the decision to accept it. He knew he could never give up Sherlock, but found that living it was something else entirely. The pain, the sadness, the anger was almost unbearable. If Sherlock starts this, he has to finish it. Or John will have to. He will have to leave Baker Street and Sherlock. His life.

Suddenly John can’t listen anymore. He can’t hear those words. He can’t make that decision. Not now.

“Sherlock. Sherlock, I can’t. I can’t do this. I can’t…” With tears in his eyes, John makes to stand, but his desperate flatmate reaches his long arms clear over the small table and grasps his wrists, pinning them on the table between them. John glares at him. “Let go of me.”

“I love you. I am yours forever,” Sherlock’s voice is intense and quiet, his eyes like silver flames. “With you, I am happy. I am complete. You make me human, John, and my humanity is the key I have always been missing. The one I have always searched for. Emotion, sentiment, caring. They are not defects found on the losing side. They are not disadvantages. They are… You are everything. You have given me everything.”

John is speechless. He stares at the man, wide-eyed as Sherlock gently releases his wrists. His hands glide to his suit coat and he pulls the ring box from his breast pocket. He delicately opens it and places it on the table before John.

John’s eyes are wider than they have ever been, his jaw slack with shock. Sherlock cups John’s hands in his own and looks deeply into his glorious, shining blue eyes.

“John, will you marry me?”

John’s throat catches in a breathless gasp and tears fall down his cheeks. His voice is barely a whisper.

“Yes. Oh god, yes.”

Sherlock’s heart skips a beat. He quickly pulls the ring from the box and gets to his feet beside the table. John follows suit and stands up in front of him. They gaze at one another with wide eyes, unable to believe they are here and this is really happening. Eye contact is only broken when the tall man looks down at John’s hands and takes his left in his own, palm down. Sherlock slowly, gently slides the ring on John’s ring finger. It looks perfect glistening in the dim light of the restaurant, like it has come home.

John’s eyes move away from the ring and slowly climb Sherlock’s torso until he meets his lover’s eyes once more. No, not lover. Fiance. Sherlock’s silver eyes sparkle down at John and he smiles brightly. Unable to contain his joy, John grins like an idiot. He touches Sherlock’s button-down, feeling the firm body beneath his fingertips. As if of their own volition, John’s hands slide up Sherlock’s body until the detective’s face is cupped in them. Sherlock’s arms are around John, his long fingers resting on the small of his back. Their lips come together quietly and move in a way that tells the two men they were always meant to touch one another. There is no one else for either of them. Sherlock smiles against the doctor’s mouth.

“I love you, John,” his eyes are still closed and his deep voice a delicate whisper.

Before John can answer, they hear a throat clearing that is unmistakably Angelo. They separate a bit to look at their friend. Recognizing that almost everyone in the restaurant is watching them, John drops his hands and Sherlock releases the shorter man’s waist. They turn toward Angelo, their hands finding each other and twining fingers together.

With an apology for the display already forming on his lips, Sherlock begins to speak only to stop when he sees Angelo’s face. It is not one of irritation or embarrassment, but one of excited anticipation. Glancing at John and then back to the proprietor, Sherlock smiles genuinely.

“My dear friend, I would like you to be the first to know that John and I are engaged.”

“Oh! Oh, Sherlock, I’m so happy!” he throws his arms around the slender man and squeezes tightly. The people around them start clapping enthusiastically. “You, who have been my friend all these years,” he releases him and claps a hand on John’s shoulder. “And you…” he suddenly envelopes him in a bear hug and John lets out a little gasp. “You make him so happy. I have always wanted that for Sherlock. Ever since he cleared me of going to prison.”

Angelo mercifully releases John, who can finally breathe normally again, and takes a step back to look at them. Sherlock looks matter-of-fact, but friendly, a small smile on his face.

“You still went to prison.”

“Eh,” the man shrugs, his smile broadening, “but not for as long.”

Angelo insists they share a toast and they talk at length. The jolly man relates some of the most embarrassing stories about the world’s only consulting detective that John has ever heard, much to Sherlock’s chagrin. It is after midnight when the duo finally catches a cab for home. John’s eyes fall to where he holds hands with his fiance and he lets out a contented sigh. Two of Sherlock’s fingers stroke John’s gently. John raises his gaze to see the detective smiling at him. When their eyes meet, the smile slowly fades. Sherlock’s eyes grow increasingly intense and heated. His expression is quickly that of a man who has stripped John bare, hungry and inflamed. John swallows hard and suddenly the cab can’t get to Baker Street fast enough.

***

Sherlock and John stumble up the seventeen steps to the door of 221B, already pulling at one another’s clothing. John twists away from Sherlock to turn his back and unlock the door. Almost as soon as he inserts the key into the lock, Sherlock’s breath is on his ear and neck. John’s head falls back, his mouth open, a quiet moan escaping his throat. Sherlock’s body presses up against the length of John’s back. A burgeoning erection grinding near the top of his bum. John reaches behind and finds a handful of Sherlock’s firm, glorious ass. The heat radiating from Sherlock’s body is just as intoxicating and all-encompassing as his enticing scent, another of the many things John loves about him.

The tip of a tongue tickles John’s ear, evoking another low moan. Lips, kisses, and that clever tongue shower his neck with attention. Sherlock’s arms are wrapped the smaller man’s body. One hand is inside his jacket, fingertips playing at a nipple ruefully hidden under a jumper and button-down. The other hand lightly strokes the zipper of John’s jeans and, with it, his hardening cock. John’s own hand, still attempting to unlock the door, trembles uselessly on the key.

His enthusiasm for devouring John’s tanned neck increasing by the second, Sherlock crowds him against the door. John leans his head back against the taller man’s shoulder and tilts it to the side, offering easier access for the detective’s nimble tongue and warm lips. Sherlock smiles against that delectable neck, a low growl in his throat. He feels John’s pulse quicken under his mouth and instantly wants more. Sherlock wants everything. Every part of his new fiance  **must** be explored and worshipped.

The detective adeptly unbuttons John’s jeans. Two fingers pinch John’s zip and drag it down. Next those fingers slide in to cup the aching bulge in John’s bright red pants. He gasps breathlessly.

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

John pushes him away with his body and quickly turns to face him. Sherlock’s mouth finds John’s immediately. Their lips join, moving together in a perfect and heated kiss. Trying to regain his senses, John braces himself against the door and pushes at the taller man’s shoulders.

“Sherlock,” he feels his lips being bitten lightly and groans. His eyes rolling back, he struggles for coherent thought. “Sherlock, stop.”

The lips instantly disappear and the pressure of Sherlock’s body eases. When John opens his eyes, he sees a concerned look on his fiance’s face. Quiet words are on his kiss-swollen lips.

“What’s wrong? Did I force you…”

“No! God, no. I was just going to say that Mrs. Hudson could…she could…” John fumbles for words and then smiles. “We should get inside.”

Sherlock smiles and kisses John with a little laugh. Answering with that special giggle that makes Sherlock’s stomach do flips, John pushes the detective away just a touch roughly and turns to open the door. 

“By all means, lead the way,” Sherlock chuckles behind him.

Both men step inside. Sherlock closes the door behind and secures its deadbolt. He feels John’s hands on his arms pulling him around so they are facing. The small man focuses on his face with smiling eyes as he raises to tiptoes and kisses those perfect lips. Soft, supple bottom with a cupid’s bow top. He pulls back and gazes at Sherlock with dark eyes. His hands slide up Sherlock’s long arms to his broad shoulders. He pushes the woolen Belstaff from them and down to fall on the floor. Sherlock fixes him with sultry eyes. His hands cup John’s face as he bends forward and covers John’s mouth with his own in one smooth movement. Their lips hover close when they stop to take a breath.

“Back in the cab,” John whispers. “I love when you do that.”

Feeling unable to form full sentences, Sherlock merely “hmms” questioningly in reply.

“When you fuck me with your eyes,” John finishes. Sherlock raises a smoldering gaze to John’s face, his cheeks flushed red and spreading down his neck.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he answers innocently.

“Oh, yes you do,” John dives in for more, crashing his open mouth against Sherlock’s and licking at his tongue. Sherlock grabs two fist-fulls of jacket and tears it from John’s body. His hands are at John’s waist pulling up his jumper before the jacket hits the floor. Their kisses break as the woolen garment flies over John’s head.

Without missing a beat, John shoves the taller man up against the door and pins him with both his hands and lips. Dropping the jumper, Sherlock hands are pulling John’s shirt from his trousers and covering the small of his back, touching every gorgeous inch of naked skin they can reach. John pushes at him again and leans back so his adept fingers have the room to unbutton the man’s shirt. After it is on the floor with the jumper, John traces a fingertip along Sherlock’s well-defined collarbone and then tips forward to suck at it lightly. Sherlock twitches and giggles a little. His roaming hands come to rest on John’s broad shoulders. John smiles up at him, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist and grabbing his ass.

“Another erogenous zone?”

“Ticklish,” Sherlock breathes, his pupils growing larger.

“It means the same thing.”

“Rubbish,” he covers John’s mouth to silence his laughter, his hands unbuttoning John’s shirt. As he spreads open the cotton, Sherlock bends forward and dances his lips over skin and muscle. He lingers, licking at the firm nipples and angular pectorals. A loud moan rumbles deep in John’s throat and Sherlock hears his own voice groaning along with him. 

In a rush, John shoves him against the door hard and looks at him with eyes that have shed every trace of iris. He presses his body to Sherlock’s and wraps his hands around both thighs, pulling up forcefully. Sherlock hops into his arms without hesitation and wraps his long legs around John’s waist. He holds tightly to John’s shoulders and kisses him roughly and yet, softly. It is chaste and sensuous, and not less erotic than one full of tongues and teeth.

John backs away from the wall and turns effortlessly to walk down the hall. By the time John steps into the bedroom, Sherlock is harder than he can ever remember. He is certain his trousers are going to rip loose and hang from his body in tatters like the green strongman in that series of films John enjoys, never to be worn again. 

Standing before the bed, John smirks against Sherlock’s lips and inches his fingers toward the man’s inner thighs. Sherlock starts to warn him off, but he pays no mind and runs his fingertips along said thigh, stopping very close to the detective’s crotch. Sherlock laughs loudly, both legs suddenly twitching and squirming. He releases John’s waist and falls onto the bed, as a result of the doctor’s cunning plan. What John doesn’t expect is Sherlock grabbing his wrists on the way down and yanking him on top of his lean body. They are both laughing now and trying to untangle their limbs. Sherlock looks into John’s eyes. He looks back. The detective’s lips curl into a broad smile.

“Fiance,” his voice is quiet and deep and happy. He brushes the fringe from John’s forehead. John grins and leans down to kiss his lips softly. They breathe one another’s air for a moment before John transfers his lips to Sherlock’s cheek, his nose, his right brow, that particularly sensitive spot of his ear. The man giggles again and wraps his arms around the shorter man’s shoulders, his legs around John’s waist. With a wicked little snicker, Sherlock thrusts up at the man’s hips, their cocks rubbing together.

“Fucking hell!” John all but yells. He pushes himself up enough to meet his detective’s eyes. Sherlock glides his hands up and down John’s strong arms. The doctor takes in every detail of his beautiful face and disheveled curls, the flush of color creeping up his neck from his chest. “My god, I love you.”

His words are like a whisper, a solemn prayer. Sherlock presses their lips together and revels in the touch of that soft, insistent mouth. Before he knows it, those lips are on his neck. His eyes roll back and he bites his lip. The feel of John’s mouth on his skin is exquisite, the feeling of John’s muscular body upon his own. Sliding his hands to John’s biceps, he squeezes his thighs and draws his doctor closer. His hips buck involuntarily, rubbing their erections together roughly. Both men gasp and curse when they release the breath. 

“Jesus.”

“Fuck.”

John dives for his fiance and snogs him thoroughly. A wave of desire rushes over Sherlock and it suddenly becomes essential that he be inside John right now. He growls deep and low and fixes deep blue eyes with his own. John looks at him hungrily through half-closed lids.

“Yes. I want you,” he is breathless. “Take me, Sherlock. I want to give you all I have, every part of me.” 

With those words, John squirms from Sherlock’s long legs and hurls himself at the bedside table. He wrenches open the top drawer and grabs a tube of lubricant from within. He rolls onto his back and pops open the bottle, but Sherlock’s large hands stop him before he can squirt the slick fluid onto his fingers. Never taking his eyes off John, he slides the bottle from his hand and covers his own instead. Sherlock slowly and methodically prepares John. He is very thorough. Within minutes, John is so full of pleasure and desire that he cannot hold his body still. His legs are shaking on either side of Sherlock’s body. 

Small beads of sweat collect on Sherlock’s forehead. He doesn’t even try to hide how much he wants John right now and flicks a gentle finger over his prostate. The resulting whine from deep in John’s throat drives the detective out of his mind. He cannot. Wait. Any. Longer. And yet, he has the sudden impulse to keep his fingers where they are and taste John. Without another thought, Sherlock presses his mouth against John’s knee and then drags his lips down his inner thigh until he’s staring at his cock. John moans loudly, fisting his hands in the sheets, and squirming. Sherlock takes him in his mouth, licking with a most luxurious tongue.

“Sherlock!” John exclaims breathlessly. “Ah…god…fuck…oh…”

Sherlock sucks slowly, suddenly wanting only to take his time and force all thoughts from John’s mind until all he can think of is Sherlock. He runs his tongue along John’s length from base to tip, masterfully twirling it around the head. He brushes a finger or two across John’s prostate occasionally to punctuate the actions of his mouth until his doctor is a writhing bundle of ecstasy. 

Sherlock continually draws John close to the edge only to back off again. He touches his prostate once again, then withdraws his hands and mouth quickly. John sits up suddenly and fixes him with fierce eyes. His brow is deeply furrowed and he growls darkly.

“Get. Inside.  **Now.”**

Sherlock can’t stop his lips from quirking into a small smile. Not amused, John grabs him roughly and drags the taller man onto his body. He immediately begins to snog his detective senseless, biting and licking as he sees fit. Trying to keep himself from giving into the heady pleasure of John’s ministrations, Sherlock persists in finding John’s hole with his own aching erection and presses in. He slides in so easily that he nearly comes on the spot. John, on the other hand, is not so lucky. He spills all over his own stomach, some spiraling onto chest, the moment Sherlock is balls deep, his voice shouting almost incoherently into the room.

“Oh god Sherlock yes yes jesus fucking christ I love you oh god oh…oh,” his volume lowers as he rides out the orgasm, Sherlock backing out and thrusting back in slowly all the while until… “oh…oh…shit.”

Sherlock kisses John’s gasping lips gently and repeatedly, shushing him.

“Shh…you’re fine. (kiss) You’re perfect. (kiss).” He lifts his head to look at his lover’s blissed out and flushed face. “God, you’re gorgeous.”

John smiles and breathes a long sigh out of his smiling lips. Sherlock smiles back and starts canting his hips. Back and forth, back and forth, until he is pounding John’s prostate again and again. John gasps and thrusts and twists beneath him. They each cry out the other’s name as Sherlock bursts and fills John. He trembles over him and thrusts lightly for what seems like forever. His eyes are closed, mouth open while John watches him, amazed. Sherlock’s eyebrows drift up slowly into arches. He gasps in absolute euphoria, his arms and legs now shaking, and then he collapses onto John’s body with a graceless thud. John lets out a little laugh and takes Sherlock in his arms. He kisses his forehead.

“God, I love you.”

“And I you,” meeting his eyes and smiling, “my husband.”

“We’re not married yet,” John grins.

“Doesn’t matter. You are and will forever be.”

John’s grin grows even wider and he kisses Sherlock’s nose. Sherlock gives him a mock frown that quickly descends into giggling. John follows. Still laughing, Sherlock reaches for a pair of discarded pants and wipes them both clean. When he finally manages to pull himself together and stop giggling, Sherlock kisses John affectionately.

“I love you, John. Always. Oh!” he raises his head quickly with a spark in his eye and John thinks he can almost see a light bulb tick on above his head. “I didn’t show you the inscription.”

“Inscription?”

Sherlock moves off the doctor’s body and settles beside him, still snuggled up to his warmth. John wraps his right arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulls him close. He watches as Sherlock takes hold of John’s left hand and slides off the ring. Holding it carefully in his fingertips, he tilts it toward John so he can read the lettering inside.

“What I’ve meant to always,” he casts loving eyes at the detective. “Always?”

“From the beginning,” he nods. “I’ve wasted so much time.”

“Not wasted,” John shakes his head. “We were still together.”

Sherlock considers this while John strokes fingers through his silky curls.

“True. I wouldn’t trade a moment. My life has become so different since we met. You have changed everything.”

“For the better, I hope.”

“Every time,” he says and then raises his brows, pretending to realize something. “Well, maybe not every time. “

John giggles and gives those curls a playful pull. Sherlock laughs and kisses John softly, but passionately. He finds John’s left hand again and delicately replaces the ring, looking into his sparkling deep blue eyes as it reaches his knuckle.

“I do,” he whispers reverently.

John shivers and cups Sherlock’s cheek with his re-ringed hand. Drawing the detective’s face close, he places a gentle kiss to his lips. Lingering afterwards to sigh happily and nip at Sherlock’s full lower lip. He feels Sherlock’s breath on his face when the man chuckles quietly.

“You just can’t resist that, can you?”

“Not at all,” he chuckles with his lover. 

Sherlock rests his head on John’s shoulder, looking out over chest. His fingers play over the fingers of John’s left hand where it lies on John’s belly. He shivers when a fingertip touches the smooth platinum. The detective smiles to himself and presses up closer to John. His life had been more exciting from the moment he met the short doctor and being in a relationship with him had made it amazing. God, how amazing. Sherlock giggles in spite of himself, the image of the two of them exchanging vows in his mind.

He quiets when John’s hand twitches a little, his head turning slightly in sleep. Sherlock watches as his fiance breathes deeply and evenly, smiling when John’s tongue pops out to give his lips a quick lick. Sherlock stretches his neck until his face is close to John’s and he kisses his cheek gently. John stirs, but does not wake.

“Sleep well, my love,” he mumbles almost silently. With that, he snuggles in and closes his own sleepy eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I freaked you out with the things go awry at Angelo's summary? Heh heh. Or When John tried to leave the table maybe? It was starting to look like his dinner with Mary all over again and wouldn't she have been tickled pink to see that. You know, if she wasn't dead and all. I didn't even change the tags so as to not give anything away. Eeeeeevil.
> 
> I love this chapter. It warms my heart. Sherlock finally realizing being human is okay and that John brings him strength. John finally saying yes when Sherlock asks, feeling that he has worked through everything that has happened and coming out better on the other side. Beautiful. And then the sex. OH YEAH! Steamy, sultry, John carrying Sherlock around the flat for a change. Need I say more.
> 
> *nudge nudge wink wink*
> 
> * Now that they're engaged, can they make it to the wedding?  
> * How long will this truce between the brothers Holmes last? Has Mycroft finally learned his lesson?  
> * Is Greg okay and will he be back soon?
> 
> Gosh, it's harder to think of questions tonight. Moriarty's dead. Magnussen's dead. Mary's dead. Janine is locked away.  
> Hmmm.
> 
> * Who will plan the wedding?  
> * What cases or villains will come out of the woodwork now?  
> * Will Sherlock change his mind about sentiment and whatnot again? (God, just the thought is exhausting, no?)
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, and that notifications are working again. Personally, I have my doubts. Please keep checking up on this because I'll still be posting. If you think it's been good so far, stick around. It gets even better. (infamous brow waggle) At least, that's my humble opinion.
> 
> Thanks so much for all the love and support. You all mean the world to me. I couldn't have made it this far without you.  
> Much love, Jane


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fate of Greg Lestrade is revealed.

The bedroom is bright with sunlight pouring in the window. Even through the curtains, the light is startlingly vibrant. John blinks his eyes against it until they adjust. He yawns and scrubs a hand over his face. He sees the sunlight glint off the ring on his finger in the mirror across the room and freezes. He straightens his spine and pulls his shoulders back, a satisfied look on his face. He is no longer Dr. John Watson. He is Dr. John Watson, fiance. Fiance to Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective. The gorgeous, perfect, bastard that is Sherlock. Holmes.

John’s deep blue eyes come to rest on the man who shares his bed. He looks peaceful and so innocent when he’s asleep. An errant curl dangles over his forehead close to an eye. His mouth is open just a skosh, allowing for a very quiet snoring sound every few breaths. John giggles to himself and brushes the curl from Sherlock’s forehead. This man belongs to him. He is going to marry Sherlock Holmes. John feels as though he has never loved anyone else, which is partly accurate. He has certainly not loved anyone like this.

John watches fondly as the same curl falls onto Sherlock’s forehead again. He reaches for it, but stops dead. His head snaps up to look at the bedroom door. There is a noise in the flat. If he had to guess, he’d say the kitchen. Someone is in the flat. Someone who is not Mrs. Hudson. She always calls out when she comes in. Not to mention that she is visiting her sister.

John rises, pulls on his pajama bottoms, and silently removes his gun from the second drawer in the bedside table. He considers the possibility that Mycroft broke his way in again. Based upon the movements he can hear, John finds that unlikely. Plus, the bloody ponce has also taken to ringing one or both of their mobiles to wake them and pompously request their presence in the dining room.

With his Sig at the ready, John opens the bedroom door quietly and steps through. He creeps carefully down the hall and stops against the wall next to the open kitchen doorway. He leaps into the room with cat-like speed and grace, yelling stop and taking aim with the gun held in both hands. The screaming reply he receives is shrill and almost enough to make him wish he’d just ignored the noises in favor of snuggling against Sherlock’s side, even if it had ended badly. 

John lets the gun barrel fall the moment he claps eyes on the “intruder”.

“Mrs. Hudson?!” he breathes out a frustrated sigh. “Jesus, I could’ve… What are you doing here?”

“Don’t you scold me, John Watson!” she exclaims, pointing a finger at him with a frown. “Your door was locked. I thought you were out.”

John’s shoulders sag with the rapidly decreasing adrenaline. His landlady stands by the counter, staring him down with a certain motherly anger, a bag of sugar in one hand and the other on her hip. He puts the safety on as he tucks the gun in the back of his waistband. Mrs. Hudson had clearly bought them some groceries and was putting them away when John so rudely interrupted. He glances at the clock above her head and realizes it is much later than he originally thought.

John takes a step forward and opens his mouth to apologize when his tall fiance rushes into the room. Sherlock clearly pulled on a dressing gown hurriedly. It hangs open to reveal a wrinkled pair of John’s boxer shorts. His wide silver eyes look from John to Mrs. Hudson.

“What is going on?” he asks in a startled tone.

“Oh, it’s nothing, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson replies in annoyance. She resumes putting away the sugar. The detective looks to John, who scrubs both hands through his mussed hair and gestures at their landlady with his dominant hand as he explains.

“I thought she was a burglar or a pissed off criminal or something.”

“Hudders always enters unannounced,” Sherlock frowns.

“I didn’t think it was her,” John snaps, getting angry now. He turns to look at the older woman. “Aren’t you supposed to be visiting your sister?”

“Yes! I leave tomorrow.”

John sighs and hangs his shoulders in defeat. Meanwhile, Sherlock ties his dressing gown closed and looks at his doctor matter-of-factly. 

“She did remind us of this two days ago. I’m surprised you would forget. You’re usually so organized.”

John’s looks at his detective for a moment. He shakes his head and covers his own forehead with his left hand, sighing again.

“I know, I know, but I’ve had a lot on my mind lately,” he runs a hand through his hair. “I must have gotten the days mixed up and when I heard noises and thought it was still early…”

He stops when he sees Sherlock’s amused face and immediately turns on the detective. Pointing a finger of warning in that gorgeous face - Christ, he can’t  **not** think that even when he’s angry - John fixes him with an angry expression. Sherlock raises his hands in mock defense. 

“Now you look, Sherlock Holmes…”

“John Watson!” their landlady exclaims loudly. They both look at her, startled. Her hands are on her cheeks and her eyes wide as a full moon. “What is that on your finger?!”

Without moving their bodies, both pairs of eyes shift to John’s left hand, still pointing at Sherlock. Light briefly glints off the silver-colored ring. Mrs. Hudson rushes over and plucks his hand from the air. Holding it delicately, palm down, she beams at the ring and then at the two men. Tears gather in her eyes.

“Oh, boys! It’s beautiful!” turning her weepy eyes to Sherlock. “It’s perfect, Sherlock. He’s…”

She releases John’s hand and pulls Sherlock into a tight hug, which he returns without hesitation. This would surprise John if it was anyone else, but Mrs. Hudson has been like a mother to Sherlock for many long years and he is the son Mrs. Hudson never had. A tear slips from her eye.

“Oh, Sherlock. I’m so happy for you.”

“Thank you,” his deep baritone rumbles quietly. They part and both look to John. Mrs. Hudson wraps her arms around the small man.

“You too, John,” she pulls back to look at them both. “I’ve been hoping for the two of you since the moment you walked in that door. I couldn’t be happier for you both.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. We’re both very excited.”

She looks at them fondly. They grin back like idiots. She shakes her head slightly, silently marveling at the way things have changed for “her boys”.

“So, when did this happen? Last night?”

“Yes,” John answers quickly, suddenly realizing a trip to the loo must take place immediately. He ducks toward the door. “I’ll let Sherlock give you the details. Sorry, be right back.”

They hear the loo door closing shortly after he’s gone. Mrs. Hudson gives Sherlock a little giggle and he rolls his eyes. She gives him a knowing look.

“So, you’re both up late this morning.”

“Don’t.”

“Oh, Sherlock, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s good to have an exciting sex life.”

“I’m not ashamed. I would simply prefer not to discuss it.”

“You know, sometimes I can hear…”

“MRS. HUDSON!”

She laughs outright at his appalled expression. Sherlock clears his throat and moves to the sink, filling the kettle for tea. She watches him with kind eyes and a little smile.

“You really are like a son to me, Sherlock.”

His head snaps around. When he sees her face full of pride and love, he puts the kettle on the counter and steps back to her side. The two silently embrace, each thinking about all they have been for one another over the years. Even at his most careless, Sherlock has always held a special place for this woman in his heart. He kisses her forehead softly.

By the time John returns, Mrs. Hudson has gone and Sherlock has just finished making them toast and tea.

“Mrs. Hudson?”

“She asked that I give you her love once more. She didn’t want to rush off, but hadn’t planned on staying. She’s meeting Mrs. Turner for lunch.” John looks uneasy. “She is not bothered by what happened earlier, John. Don’t worry.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, she had many a gun pointed in her direction when her husband was still alive. Now, come with me. Would you bring the toast?” Sherlock carries their teas into the dining area. John follows with the toast, as well as butter and marmalade. They silently put the spreads on their toast and begin eating.

“So, I guess we’re eating breakfast for lunch then.”

“Well, it is nearly noon.”

“I’m glad I wasn’t scheduled today. We must have been really tired,” John comments, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“For god sake, John. You’re as bad as Mrs. Hudson,” the detective rolls his eyes, but there is a sparkle in them. John pops the last of the toast in his mouth and rises. He saunters over to Sherlock and sits on his lap. Before the detective is able to say a word, John captures his fiance’s lips with his own. John sucks that delectable lower lip between his own. Sherlock’s arms fold around him, his hands gripping the t-shirt John put on while in the loo. When their lips separate, John pulls back to look at the stunning man whose lap he is perched upon.

“Good morning, future husband.”

Sherlock smiles and kisses the point at the end of John’s adorable little nose.

“Good afternoon is more accurate.”

“As long as I wake up with you, it doesn’t matter what time it is.”

Sherlock has a look on his face that is somewhere between bemused and amused. He kisses John softly and the man sighs.

“I need to run a couple of errands, but I’ll bring back a mid-afternoon lunch, yeah?”

Sherlock’s perfect lips turn down into a pout. John can’t help but giggle. The detective’s lips quirk up and he ruffles a hand through his doctor’s soft hair.

“I suppose that is acceptable.”

***

John walks into Tesco and grabs a basket. He’s done with his other errands, groceries being the last stop on the list. Aside from lunch, of course. John starts to debate what to get as he walks down the produce aisle. He pulls a plastic bag from a nearby dispenser and looks through the whole leaf lettuce. He sees a nice bundle next to an apple and puts it in the bag, shaking off droplets of water as he does.

He continues walking down the aisle and crosses to the island in its middle, John pulls another bag and scoops up some cashews with a large spoon. As he ties the bag closed, he returns the smile of a woman standing across the island. Then he heads for the green beans. Glancing at the peas still in their pods, he grins to himself at the thought of making Sherlock shell them. A bowl resting on his tailored, black trousers and framed by a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up. Those long, pale fingers plucking out each pea. A disgruntled frown on that angular face. John giggles quietly and decides to use fresh peas in tonight’s dinner. He typically uses frozen because they both prefer it to canned, but he must see his vision of pea-shelling Sherlock play out.

With the bags of cashews, green beans, lettuce, and peas tucked in his basket, John stops at the carrots. He selects a few and remembers he needs a red pepper before he leaves produce for crispy chow mein noodles and sunflower seeds. Everything else he needs is still in supply at the flat. John ties the bag of carrots closed and walks to the peppers, selecting one that sits next to a bright, red apple. Stowing the bagged vegetable in his basket, he leaves the section. 

Having grabbed sunflower seeds along the way, he turns and heads up an aisle for the noodles. He is acting rather absentmindedly, considering whether to order Indian or Greek food for lunch, and comes to a stop at the noodles. Reaching for them with thoughts of eggplant moussaka in his mind, he suddenly freezes in place, hand stopping a few inches in front of the box. A wave of ice creeps slowly into his blood like a leak from a tiny crack in a dam. He blinks and lets his hand fall to his side in slow motion as he stares at the bright, red apple on the shelf next to the noodles. His cold blood rises to his chest. He can’t seem to move. He closes his eyes.

“John?”

His eyes snap open and he turns to see Sally Donovan approaching. She is carrying her own basket. Shopping? But she doesn’t live in this area. John glances back at the shelves, but the apple is gone. He takes in a deep breath and looks back at Sally, who now stands in front of him.

“Doing some shopping?” she asks brightly, but her smile fades a bit at the expression on his face. “Hey, are you okay?”

“What? Yeah, yes,” he answers with a soft laugh and mild shrug. He reaches for the noodle box and places it in his basket. “Just losing my mind is all.”

“With your boyfr…flatmate, I can understand that,” she jokes politely. John chuckles and Sally tentatively joins in. Her smile has broadened again. “To be honest, I nearly regretted that as soon as I said it. I wasn’t sure quite how you’d take it. I’ve said some pretty terrible things about Holmes before.”

“You have,” he nods. She shifts her weight uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry, John. I was… Look, I like you,” she bites her lip. “I am trying.”

“I know you are and I appreciate it. Sherlock… It may not seem like it, but he is too.”

“I know. Look, uh…” she glances to her right as though she’s afraid someone might be listening, “have you heard from Gr... Lestrade?”

“Not a word. I hope he’s getting the rest he needs.”

“Yeah,” she looks uneasy. “What about that brother of Holmes’. Anything from him?”

“No,” John starts slowly. ”He’s keeping an eye on Greg, as you know. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Yeah. I’m sure you’re right. I just…”

“You miss him, don’t you?” he asks carefully. She looks at him and responds with an almost unnoticeable nod. “Well, you do see him every day. You work together.” He pauses and watches her look everywhere, but at him. “You like him…don’t you?”

Sally locks eyes with him and whispers gravely.

“Yeah, I like him. I like him too much.”

This time John shifts his weight uncomfortably. A part of him was hoping she’d get angry, slap him, and deny the whole thing. Sally was promoted, but Greg is still her superior. John rubs the back of his neck with one hand and does what he would if speaking to Greg. Sally is ultimately a good person and deserves as much consideration as he would give anyone else.

“Would you like to talk about it?” he watches as Sally’s eyes shift away and then back. “We could both finish up shopping and grab a coffee.”

“Maybe another time,” she smiles after a short pause. “I really should be going.”

“Sure,” John says with a comfortable smile. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

“Thanks.”

John nods. She returns it, still smiling as she turns and walks away. John watches for a moment and heads for checkout. It’s about time he was back home with his beloved.

***

John does not hear from Greg or Mycroft. In fact, neither he nor Sherlock hears anything for weeks. Greg has been on sabbatical for nearly two months. John and Sherlock have worked with Sally on many different occasions. The three have developed a good rapport, and Sherlock and Sally talk to one another now almost as easily as John and Sally do. He and Sally never did have that conversation about Greg, but perhaps it is for the best. In truth, John isn’t sure what he would tell her and believes Sherlock would deduce it all immediately if John knew any details. Although, it’s possible that the detective has already seen it all on Sally’s face and just not said anything.

A loud grumble interrupts John’s musings on Greg, Sally, and Sherlock. His brows arch almost evilly and he smiles, turning from where he is slicing onions at the kitchen counter to face his angry helper. Sherlock is sitting in a chair with a bowl in his lap. It is filled with both shelled and unshelled peas. Another bowl of just pods sits on the table in before him. John smiles to himself, wiping off his hands with a towel. He meant to do this again after that day he ran into Sally at Tesco a few weeks ago, but never did get around to it for one reason or another. It is every bit as adorable as the first time. 

John watches as Sherlock cracks open a pod with his long and graceful fingers. His eyes shift up to look at John from under a brow creased in wrath. The detective’s lips are pursed and he looks absolutely thunderous. John’s smile widens, showing his teeth.

“You’re doing very well, Sherlock. Isn’t it nice when we can make dinner together?”

“I thought I made it clear the first time you requested I perform this task that it would never happen again.”

John opens his mouth to speak when there is a knock on the door. He turns half to the counter and tosses the towel on its surface. Heading out of the kitchen, he points a warning finger at Sherlock.

“Stay there and keep shelling.”

“Not much doubt of that, is there?” he raises the wrist John has manacled to a table leg, fuming. John grins and blows a kiss on the way out. Sherlock watches as he disappears. He makes a fist and pulls against the cuff around his wrist, pulling the long chain between it and the matching cuff taut. He huffs angrily. John knows he has this pair because it is not easy to pick, the bastard. Sherlock casts a glance at the kitchen door again, rolls his eyes, and picks up another full pea pod.

John is about halfway to the flat’s front door when there is another knock. He jogs for the last few steps.

“Coming,” he calls. His mouth drops as he opens the door wide, quickly followed by a bright smile. Standing in the vestibule is the long-lost Greg Lestrade. He wears his usual light grey trousers and white button-down with a light-colored trench coat. He looks so casual and commonplace that it’s almost like he hasn’t been essentially missing for two months.

“Evening.”

“Greg. Come in, come in,” he steps aside and lets the DI enter. “Please, let me get your coat.”

“Thanks,” he says, shrugging it off. John hangs the coat and turns to his friend with open arms. The two share a hug. John notices the man’s hands are shaking ever so slightly. It adds another bullet point to the list of small items that tell him Greg is good, but not at all okay. They both look each other up and down at a glance as they part. Greg smiles. “So, you look good. Everything went well with Donovan?”

“Yeah. Yeah, good. No trips to the hospital for either of us,” John chuckles. “AND She and Sherlock have both made a real effort to get along and not drive me mad.”

“Great. I was hoping they’d both grow up.”

John smiles at his friend and notices that his salt and pepper hair seems a little more salty. His eyes are tired, but just as friendly as ever.

“Don’t get me wrong. Sally is a great copper and all, but it’s good to have you back.”

“John!” Sherlock’s voice calls from the kitchen, startling Greg.

“God, I thought you were here alone,” he mumbles under his breath.

“John, if you’re going to talk to Lestrade, come get me out of this.”

The smile on John’s face fades as his eyes widen. 

“Shit. I forgot,” he hurries for the kitchen. Greg follows slower, putting his hands in his pockets and gazing at his friend curiously.

“What’s he on about?”

“He’s handcuffed to the table,” John replies, turning to look at him as they walk. A grin spreads over Greg’s face and he picks up the pace to follow right behind John. “I think he’d rather you waited here.”

“Oh, I’m sure he would.”

John grins and they both enter the kitchen. Sherlock is leaning back in his chair, the bowl of peas no longer on his lap. He casts his eyes of deduction over Greg.

“Welcome back,” he says smoothly.

“Thanks, mate.”

“You look physically well.”

“I am…physically,” Greg nods. “Can’t say I’m back to normal, but as close as I can be right now.”

“Please, have a seat,” the duo says nearly in unison.

“Thanks,” Greg grins, pulling up the other chair.

“I’ll make some tea,” John offers and Greg thanks him again.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice is stern. He looks at his doctor steadily and lifts his manacled wrist into view. “If you please?”

John nods, trying not to chuckle, as he approaches and pulls a small key from his pocket. He leans over Sherlock and releases the cuff. The detective rubs at his wrist lightly and looks to Greg. John turns his back, has a silent giggle to himself, and starts on the tea. Sherlock rolls his eyes, knowing full well about the giggle, and then rolls them again at Greg’s wide smile and knowing look.

“To each his own,” he teases.

“This was your first day back at the Yard.”

Greg nods at his assertion, more of a statement than a question, and starts in on the explanation.

“Got in last night. Been so busy, Donovan hasn’t much time to fill me in on the last two months.”

“You have a case for us.” Another statement.

“Yeah, but the body’s already in the morgue. Scene is being processed. Molly’s doing the autopsy.”

“I cannot see it in situ? You should have called us from the scene,” Sherlock pouts. 

“Yeah, I know, but I wanted to stop by,” Greg says stiltedly, as though he isn’t quite sure what to say or isn’t entirely comfortable saying it. “You know, since I’ve been away for so long. “

Sherlock watches the DI knowingly as John gives both men a cuppa and then leans against the counter holding his own.

“What’s on your mind, Greg?” he inquires. Their friend takes a sip of tea and sighs. He runs a hand through his hair. Sherlock steeples his fingers, knowing what’s coming, but waiting for Greg to come to terms with verbalizing it.

“Templeton Morris. I had him in my sights. Right in front of me.”

John’s mouth is wide open in surprise.

“How did you find him?”

“Mycroft,” comes the reply as he meets John’s eyes. “That was the whole point of my sabbatical. I wanted to kill him. For what he did to my…”

“You didn’t,” Sherlock says quietly when Greg cannot finish. The other two men look at him - John with apprehension and Greg with frustration.

“I couldn’t,” Greg whispers and then repeats it louder. “I couldn’t. The man who killed the woman I loved AND my child, and I couldn’t do it.”

John puts down his tea and steps near the DI to put a hand on his shoulder.

“You aren’t a murderer, Greg.”

“You’ve killed men before without blinking,” he looks up at him. “We both have.”

John cringes at first and then his expression eases.

“In the line of duty. To save a friend. Self-defense. Not murder. Never murder.”

“His past will catch up to him, Greg,” Sherlock says in a kind voice. The man turns his head to look at the detective. 

“Like Mary?” his own voice is bitter. 

“Yes,” Sherlock tells him after a long pause while he considers what he should and should not say. “He will get what he deserves, but not at your hands. Mary wouldn’t want that.”

Greg laughs humorlessly and runs his hand through his hair again.

“She’d do it herself if she could. God knows it wouldn’t have bothered her,” he looks from one to the other. “How can you love a woman like that?”

“Greg, don’t,” John tightens his grip on the man’s shoulder. “You had no idea.”

“But you still care for her,” Sherlock says suddenly. John’s eyes shift to his flatmate and he speaks in a quiet tone of warning. There’s no sense in making Greg feel worse than he already does.

“Sherlock…”

“And you feel guilty.”

Greg shifts in his chair uncomfortably, not taking his eyes off Sherlock. John looks at the detective intensely now as if to say shut the fuck up, but the man continues.

“Because she shot and could have killed both of us.”

“Sherlock!” The word bursts from John’s mouth abruptly. The other two men look at him. “Shut. Up.”

“It’s okay, John. It’s all true. It isn’t going to help to  **not** talk about it,” he sighs. “I can’t explain why I still care for her. I’m so pissed off for so many reasons. I feel like...I don’t even know what I feel. Donovan told me I should’ve stayed away longer. “

“What do you think about that?”

“I’ve been away long enough,” he exhales deeply and smiles. “There’s no better place for me now.”

Well, we’re here,” John assures him, “and we’re always ready to help.”

“Agreed,” Sherlock adds, “and please don’t feel guilty for your feelings. I’ve spent a good many years doing just that and it isn’t worth it.” He looks at John meaningfully.

“Thanks. Both of you. It means a lot to me,” he smiles softly and then hardens his expression a bit. Looking the part of a Detective Inspector, Greg puts his hands down flat on the table and stands. “Let’s go to the morgue then, shall we?”

***

The trio walks into the morgue to see Molly, wearing protective glasses and surgical scrubs, bent over a body on the slab. She has a small hand saw, spinning and poised to open the top of the body’s skull. The blade is mere millimeters from the skin when her eyes shift up and see her visitors. She quickly switches off the saw and straightens up.

“Hi.”

“Hey, Molly,” Greg waves as he and his companions walk toward her. Sherlock and John greet her as well. “We’re here to see Fox, Braeden.”

“Right. The poisoning,” she takes off her gloves as she leads them to another table. She pulls the cover down so they can see the upper body of a reasonably young man with dark hair. She pushes up her glasses so they rest on the top of her head, the earpieces behind her ears. All three men cringe and pull their heads back at the smell as soon as the body is exposed.

“Jesus,” Greg coughs. “I thought the lab smelled weird, but Jesus.”

“Almonds,” John sniffs the air. “Arsenic?”

“So much arsenic,” Sherlock corrects, bending to look closely at the body and then up at Molly. “More than it would take to kill a man of this stature and body type.”

“More than it would take to kill ten men. His tissues are completely saturated and there’s still a lot in his bloodstream,” Molly tells him.

“And he ingested it of his own accord?”

“No signs of violence,” she nods. “There is nothing in his stomach other than wine, which must have been heavily poisoned. He drank nearly the entire bottle himself by my estimation.”

“Suicide?” John suggests.

“It’s hard to tell. He either  **really** wanted to kill himself or someone  **really** wanted him dead. There’s no way to tell from examination alone.”

“Where was he found?” Sherlock asks Greg, as he continues to look over the body, wearing gloves now.

“Name’s Braeden Fox, mid-thirties. He was an up and coming stockbroker. Found dead this morning…”

Sherlock’s eyes snap up to meet Greg’s, his brow furrowed.

“This morning??”

“By his partner in their flat,” he continues, ignoring the detective. His tone is a little defensive and more than a bit exhausted. “And, yes, this morning. I’ve had a lot of catch-up today. Donovan only had the chance to brief me an hour before I went to your flat.”

“Why are they still processing this late in the day?” Sherlock asks in disbelief. Greg shrugs.

“It’s been a bad day.”

“So you haven’t actually been to the crime scene?” John frowns in thought.

“It’s our next stop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends. Not action-packed, but necessary for the next step. The image of Sherlock shelling peas came to me one day and I HAD to write it into the story. It was too hilarious and adorable a thought to just abandon. But I didn't feel he would necessarily do it willingly. Hence, John using Sherlock's own manacles. Tee hee hee.
> 
> We finally get a chance to see what Greg's been up to and to see a bit more of his character. Whether you're touched by the goodness in his heart in his inability to kill Morris, or you think he has no guts and was a coward when he didn't end the killer, I hope you still love him. My Greg is truly an extraordinary man. I love him to bits. 
> 
> And the fact that Mycroft was helping him is just another sign that he has seen the light. 
> 
> And what about Sally's "Yeah, I like him too much" line? WHA??? So much more is going on around Greg than even he knows!
> 
> Well, y'all, I'll keep editing and we'll see where this next case takes the boys. It's bigger than they think and will test them in ways no one would expect. How's that for a teaser? LOL. The DP questions here would simply be frustrated exclamations. "What? What the fuck is THAT supposed to mean?! Test them in ways... Why don't you just say Sherlock gets lost in a corn maze and John is thrown head-first off a motorcycle? I mean, jesus, that's a much better teaser." And Deadpool would shuffle away, still making sarcastic remarks as a car flies by and knocks over a fire hydrant, water shooting up in the air and raining back down on him while he pays no mind.
> 
> Hahahahaha! Thank you again for all of your love and support. I'm having an amazing time and I hope all of you are too. For what it's worth, this has been the most fun I've had writing anything (and I've written a lot throughout my life). You all are fantastic!  
> Much love, Jane


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case continues and things take a surprising turn.

Sherlock spends 60 minutes examining the body and bouncing ideas off both John and Molly. John notes how much more the detective seems to value their opinions. He noticed Sherlock seemed to warm up more to Molly again shortly after the two of them became engaged. While John is uncertain of the reason for the change, he is glad to see it. Perhaps he is having a positive influence on his flatmate, even for all of his petulant behavior and still with a tendency to toss out insults before thinking. He believes Greg shares this opinion as the silver fox watches Sherlock with the corners of his mouth turned up.

Not long after Sherlock has completed his examination, the three men say goodbye to Molly and are in a cab to Braeden Fox’s flat.

“What has Donovan told you thus far?” the detective asks, eager to get all the pieces of the case he can before they arrive.

“Not a lot,” Greg replies with a puff of breath. “The file has been started, so there’s some information there. Fox’s partner was working late. Ended up falling asleep at his desk and didn’t get home until 6am. He found Fox dead on the sofa. Donovan and her team were there by 7.”

“She was there? Why did she fail to get the ALL of the proper information?”

“She got the basics, Sherlock. She did her job and left the details for later. AND no one will ever think of everything you do on the fly,” Greg defends, full to the brim with frustration. “The flat was sealed off until we could get to it. Like I said, it’s been a bad day.”

Sherlock straightens his spine haughtily and looks out the cab window.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say fucking Moriarty was engineering crime after crime to keep us from noticing something else,” the DI mumbles under his breath. John swallows and looks at him uneasily.

“What else can you tell us?” he pipes up, wanting to make sure everyone’s focus is on the case at hand. Unwittingly, Greg obliges.

“No forced entry. All the partner’s clothes are missing. Some other items too - toiletries, some books, CDs - that sorta thing. His mobile is missing too.”

“That doesn’t seem right. He would’ve had it with him.”

“Said he must’ve misplaced it. Fox’s mobile is in evidence. He phoned him twelve times and, most likely, left messages,” the DI shakes his head slowly, looking right at John. “I’d love to get my hands on Travers’ mobile.”

“Travers?” John asks.

“Finn Travers. Fox’s partner.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock hums, steepling his fingers before his lips and deep in thought. “He is at the flat?”

“Not at the moment, but he can be.”

***

Finn Travers is a slender man with short, light brown hair and a tan. He is in his mid-30s like Fox and his eyes are red and puffed. He stands straight and tense, looking at Sherlock with attentive eyes as he answers the man’s questions.

“Uh, we’ve been together for five years. Living together for four.”

“Forgive my curiosity, but was there ever any…trouble between the two of you?”

John and Greg’s jaws nearly drop at the detective’s tact. In the past, he would have asked the same question point blank and indelicately. Probably even added a few scenarios to get his point across. It is truly a marvel. Travers still bristles and crosses his arms tightly.

“We argued on occasion, but did either of us ever cheat? No. I wanted to marry him.”

“He didn’t?” the detective inquires.

“He didn’t know,” Travers sighs sadly. “I never screwed up the courage to ask.”

“Did someone not approve of his choice of partner?” John enters the conversation carefully. Travers focuses on him with an almost startled look on his face.

“What? No. His parents died years ago, before I even met him. It was an auto accident. He didn’t have brothers or sisters.”

“He was a stockbroker and gaining clients, wealthy clients. Quite an asset to the company,” Sherlock thinks out loud. He turns to Travers. “Would one of the partners have considered him a liability?”

“Because of me? No. He didn’t go out of his way to tell everyone, but he certainly didn’t hide it. We went to company parties together.”

“And your family?”

“My parents live in the States. They love Braeden,” he pauses when his voice catches. “We were so happy. God, I miss him already.” 

“And siblings?” Sherlock presses, trying to shift Travers’ focus away from his grief. The man straightens up and clears his throat. 

“My older brother, Ben lives in Cornwall. He owns a farm out there. It’s big business and this is a busy time. He won’t be able to leave to come to the funeral,” lowering his eyes to look at his own hands. “He’s beside himself. Braeden and I love going to the farm. Some of the greatest times of my life.”

“And he’s married? Kids?” John asks in a soft voice.

“No. The farm is his life.” 

“Tell me about your mobile and your belongings,” Sherlock says, sifting through the information in his mind palace and adding more. 

“I honestly don’t know why anyone would take my things and, as for my mobile, I must have left it somewhere. In a cab or at the restaurant.”

“Restaurant?” John prompts.

“Yes, I had lunch with a friend yesterday at Cafe Tilda.”

“Mr. Travers, have you any idea why Fox would consume an entire bottle of wine on his own? Did he do it often?”

“No,” Travers shakes his head. “No, he had a glass every evening to relax and the merlot is...was his favorite. But a whole bottle? No.”

“Was he prone to depression?”

“You mean would he kill himself?” Travers’ face hardens, his jaw set. “Is that what they’re saying?”

He looks from Sherlock to Greg furiously. John steps forward to defuse the situation.

“Braeden’s mobile is in evidence. Do you have any idea why he would phone you a dozen times all within two hours of his death?”

“He must have been worried about me,” his eyes grow wide as he struggles with the words. “He’d want to know when I’d be home.”

“He was dead within three hours of getting home,” John shakes his head. “He wouldn’t have been trying to check on you.”

“He knew you were working late. Why would he be worried at all?” Sherlock adds.

“Oh, god,” the man’s hands cover his face and then scrub through his hair. “Are you saying… Are you saying he may have been calling for help? That I could’ve…”

John steps forward again and looks directly at the shaken man.

“We don’t know anything yet, Finn. We are just gathering information, yeah?” The man is looking  at the floor. His body shakes slightly. “Look, it won’t help, but if Braeden was murdered, I’m sure there’s nothing you could’ve done to change it.”

Travers meets John’s eyes and presses his lips together in a straight line. He gives the doctor a slight nod and turns his eyes away again, trying hard to believe him. 

With the majority of the evidence technicians already gone, Sherlock and the others examine where Fox’s body was actually found. They move on to searching the rest of the flat, but both yield no additional evidence and Greg sends the last techs away. Shortly thereafter, the trio escorts Travers to the flat’s entryway. Greg wants to keep it sealed off for another 24 hours in case anything comes to light that will make him want to search it again. Travers intends to stay with a friend as a result, but even when he can go back to the flat, the man isn’t certain he will be able to face the memories. Unbeknownst to John or Greg, the man’s sentiment touches Sherlock deeply. One of the most difficult things he has ever done in his life was returning to 221B when he believed John dead. 

They are nearly out the door when the tall detective stops.

“This friend you met for lunch…” he begins.

“Justin? What about him?”

“Justin? How long have you known him?”

“Justin Giles. I’ve known him since University. He, Ben, and I have been friends for,” puffing out a breath as he reflects on it, “more than ten years.”

“And he knew Braeden?” Sherlock asks. Travers hesitates, looking a little uncomfortable. His eyes drop to the floor, glance at John, and then turn back to Sherlock.

“No,” he mumbles. The detective’s brows raise and he studies Travers with interest. “I wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the other side of my sexuality at school.” He glances at John again. “You know how it is. Kids at University are stupid and prejudiced. Justin is my best friend, but it’s always been pretty clear that he would never accept that part of my life. He only saw me with girls back then.” 

“And your brother?” the detective answers. “He kept your secret?”

“Yeah. We were all such good friends before any of this came into play. Ben knew why I wanted to keep it quiet and he respected that. He still does.”

“And how did Braeden feel?” John asks him. Travers looks at John with regret.

“He didn’t like it, but he respected my decision. It was one I made before I even knew him,” he  sighs. “I was going to tell Justin. I couldn’t very well keep it from him if Braeden said yes.”

“Do you think that had an effect on your hesitation to ask him?” John gently presses for more. Travers meets John’s eyes thoughtfully. A few seconds pass and then his eyes drop to the floor.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess it did.”

***

The trio’s final stop is New Scotland Yard to look at the crime scene photos and other evidence. They have been in Greg’s office for hours. John let himself out after offering to get coffee from the canteen. Greg had accepted with a ta. Sherlock waved him off. Cups in hand, John walks in the office door where his fiance and his friend are deep in conversation.

“It makes perfect sense, Lestrade. The killer knew Fox drank wine every evening. He even knew which kind, but he is a novice with poison. Not only does he use too much, he wants to make sure Fox drinks as much of it as possible.”

John puts the coffee on the paper and file-covered conference table next to Greg, who nods.

“Ta,” he comments before turning back to Sherlock. “And he gets him to drink all of the wine how?”

“By upsetting him. Making Fox think his longtime partner has left him.”

“Hmm,” Greg hums, swallowing a gulp and giving the detective a look of satisfaction. “So he steals all of Travers’ clothing and some of his other things.”

“Things he knew for certain belonged to Travers and, for the sake of appearances, Travers has left Fox.”

John opens his mouth to speak, but Greg suddenly snaps his fingers. Placing his coffee on the table and rifling through one of the folders.

“That text message,” he mutters, shuffling through page after page.

“Text message?” John echoes. He looks at Sherlock and then back to Greg. “What text message?”

“The last text on Fox’s mobile that came from Travers. Here it is. ‘You’re home. Now you know. I’m sorry.’ We didn’t think much of it when we saw the transcript. It seemed like a weird way to do it, but we figured he was apologizing for working late.”

“If what Travers says is true, Fox received the message long after the mobile was misplaced,” John looks over Greg’s shoulder and reads the time notation.

“The killer stole his mobile at the lunch they shared and sent the message after he watched Fox enter the flat. Also to keep Travers from answering even one of Fox’s many calls,” Sherlock explains. “And the illusion is complete. Fox thinks Travers has left him, so he drinks. The wine is right there anyway. He keeps calling and gets no answer.”

“He thinks Travers doesn’t want to talk and he drinks more,” John adds as it all becomes clear. He and Greg share a look, smiling at a job well done. Then John looks to Sherlock and his smile fades. “Wait. Lunch? Travers’ friend is the killer?”

“Yes,” the detective answers, “the other items that were taken were all dated. Albums that were popular when Travers was at University, textbooks he decided to keep - things Giles would remember. He planned the lunch because it was the easiest way to get the mobile.”

“But how did he know anything about Fox? Travers and his brother didn’t tell him.” 

“Fox’s secretary. In her interview, she stated that she has dated Giles for some time now. He used her to slowly learn everything he needed to know about Fox and Travers,” Sherlock tells them. The two men look at him incredulously and he shrugs. “It was obvious that someone had given the killer information. It clearly wasn’t Travers, so I read through the interviews of Fox’s coworkers. I started with the secretary because she was the most logical source. They know everything about their employers.”

“Oh, really?” John remarks with a little grin. “I know everything about you and I’m not your secretary.”

“But you’re also my fiance,” he smiles back.

“Details.”

“HIS WHAT?!” Greg suddenly shouts. They both look at Greg, who wears an expression of pure shock. John opens his mouth to explain, but his eyes are quickly drawn to an object on the table that Greg only just revealed when he closed the file folder holding the phone records. 

A bright red, shiny apple sits near the center of the table. John feels white, hot panic course through his veins and is speaking loudly before he even knows what he’s doing.

“Where did that come from?” he grabs Sherlock by his lapels and pulls him close. “Did you bring it in here?!”

Before anyone can utter a word, an unexpected voice saying Sherlock’s name finds their ears. All heads turn to see Mycroft Holmes standing in the doorway. John loosens his hold on the detective’s collar as the elder Holmes walks into the room.

“Sherlock,” he says again, “Irene Adler is dead.”

All three men are frozen in shock. The air in the room suddenly seems thick and heavy. The case forgotten, John takes a step forward, his mind trying to make sense of what Mycroft has said. Sherlock is glued to the spot, his expression one of utter disbelief.

“We found her remains two days ago. From what we can tell, she was murdered shortly before John was rescued from the island. I wanted to be certain it was her before I came to you, but there is no doubt. I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends. This was a shorter chapter than usual, but worry not, some of the upcoming ones are going to be pretty long. I also think there might be more than ten after all. It all depends on how they break down. I hope all of you are still enjoying this. After all, we're finally getting to the REALLY good parts. The proposal and cool cases and hot sexytimes and who knows what's in store? 
> 
> I do. Mwahahahahaha!
> 
> It's not all smooth sailing, but it never is. 
> 
> I'm sure there are plenty of questions, but I'm only going for three.  
> * Where will this case lead and how long before it gets dangerous? (bc you know it will.)  
> * The apple!! Gah! WTF?!?!  
> * What now? Irene is dead?!!? What is going on??
> 
> I'm almost finished with the next chapter already, so it'll be up soon. Thank you all. You are shafts of gold when all around is dark.  
> Love, Jane


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Baker Street

The cab ride back to Baker Street was silent. The detective and his blogger also dressed and readied for bed without speaking. Now, laying side by side beneath the bedclothes, John considers what his fiance is feeling. He reaches for Sherlock’s hand and closes his own fingers around it. Sherlock closes his eyes at the contact and quietly savors the warmth of John’s touch. Still grappling with his own emotions at the news of Irene Adler’s death, Sherlock’s mind returns to that cylindrical room he and the Woman were held in. Certain there was no escape. Certain he would never see John again. Sherlock could have given into her advances, but refused and when he did something between he and Irene had shifted. She stopped seeing him as an object to be played with and he started to see her as an ally rather than an enemy to be kept at a distance. And that friendship had gotten her killed. Did she think he had been worth it as she was being murdered? Would John, if it came to that?

Strong fingers squeezing his hand bring Sherlock back to the quiet comfort of the bedroom he shares with his fiance. Just as though his doctor knew he was in a dark place and brought him back without a word. John turns his head to look at Sherlock’s elegant profile. Sherlock stares at the ceiling.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks in a hushed voice.

“I’m fine.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

There’s a moment of silence. He can feel John’s eyes observing him closely. The man really had learned too much over the years. John takes in a breath, about to speak, but Sherlock cuts him off.

“We must get some rest. Justin Giles must be found and apprehended before he can kill again.”

“You think he will?”

“If he believes someone possesses information that could lead police to him, yes.”

“You feel responsible, don’t you?”

“Fuck,” the detective sighs in a tired voice. Sherlock had hoped discussing the case would sidetrack John enough to keep him from pressing on with the subject of Irene. It might have worked in the not so distant past. John might have just let it go back then, but those days are long since over. Sherlock turns his head and meets intense, dark blue eyes. “I am responsible. I asked for her help on more than one occasion, not the least of which was locating you on that island. Even when she refused to help, she gave clues and Moriarty killed her for it.” 

John rolls to his side to face Sherlock and puts a hand on his cheek.

“If that’s true, we’re both responsible.” Sherlock looks away, but John steers his face back. “She wanted to help you and I’m sure she knew the risks. I don’t believe for a moment that anyone could get her to do something she didn’t want to.”

Sherlock finds himself nodding slightly as he considers John’s words. Lost in thought, he doesn’t refocus on reality until he feels the hand gently slide away from his face.

“She cared for you,” John mutters in a voice that sounds sad.

“No,” now it’s Sherlock’s turn to cradle John’s face in his hands. He turns on his side quickly. “Not that way, John. We were friends and nothing more. Never more.”

“I know,” smiling with tears in his eyes. “This from the man with no friends.”

Sherlock kisses a tear away as it drips from John’s eye.

“I do have friends now. You taught me how to be one and cherish them. But there’s still only one you.”

Without a word, their lips meet for a slow, sweet kiss. All the thoughts of guilt and blame fly from Sherlock’s mind to be replaced with a certain sadness for Irene’s loss, but a sense of peace for her as well. They embrace in a tight hug once their lips part. John’s face is nestled where Sherlock’s neck meets his shoulder. He strokes long fingers through short, golden hair.

“Tell me about the apple.”

Sherlock feels John sigh heavily as his shoulders sag. John closes his eyes and curses himself for his painfully obvious panic when he saw that damn apple. He doesn’t want to concern Sherlock with his own paranoia. It’s probably nothing. Just a series of coincidences. Jim Moriarty is dead.

Then he remembers the apple in the crunchy noodle aisle and shivers.

John wants to look Sherlock in the eye when he reveals the truth behind his rather guttural reaction, but is not sure what he’ll see when he does. Will Sherlock think he’s an idiot or will he believe him? Does John even want Sherlock to believe him? Moriarty is dead. Before he can decide what to do, Sherlock pulls back and meets his eyes.

“John?” his face is full of concern.

“Sorry, I’m on edge,” he begins uneasily. He continues in a hesitant tone. “Let’s just say I’ve seen a lot of apples lately. Sometimes in unusual places.”

Sherlock straightens his neck to what seems like its longest possible form while he quickly considers this.

“Moriarty.”

Before Sherlock can say another word, John launches into what he hopes will be an explanation for his behavior. One that makes sense and doesn’t make him look insane. 

“I know there was no one there to help him and he couldn’t have survived, but I… I’m sorry. It doesn’t make any sense. I’m not being at all logical. I’m letting my emotions get the better of me,” John mutters his last words to himself. “I’m a sodding idiot.”

“John,” his voice is soft and calm. He moves his hands gently to the small of John’s back. “It doesn’t have to be logical. What you endured under that man’s power would make anyone do whatever is necessary to prevent it happening again. It would make anyone react dramatically to triggers and to hell with rationality.” John swallows hard at the lump in his throat, unsure what to say. Sherlock looks at him with soft silver eyes. “I will ask Mycroft to…”

“Sherlock, no. You hate asking him for favors.”

“I hate speaking to Mycroft full stop,” the detective corrects him. They search each other’s eyes in silence. Sherlock shifts and covers his doctor’s cheek with one warm hand. “But I love you. I will do anything for you, John, and if asking my brother to make sure Moriarty is dead will help you, then that is what I will do.”

“He won’t. He searched for the body when it happened. He’s certain Moriarty is dead. He won’t look for him again.”

“He will because I will MAKE him,” Sherlock says sternly. His gaze runs over John’s face slowly as a small smile plays at his own lips. Stroking a thumb over John’s cheek, he speaks tenderly. “I think I can safely say he will understand your feelings and you know as well as I do that if anyone can find that bastard, it’s him.”

John looks at his detective with moist eyes and smiles.

“Thank you,” he snuggles in close and tucks his head under Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock wraps his arms around the smaller man and gives him a little squeeze. “I can’t wait to marry you.”

“I have given that some thought.”

“Have you?” John asks quietly with a little smile.

“I thought we could marry in the fall.” John tilts his head up to see Sherlock looking down at him. “My family owns property in the country. It’s back courtyard is stunning in autumn. You would look amazing in a black tuxedo with a deep purple vest and tie… Are you giggling?”

“You have put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?”

“Is that not what fiances do?” Sherlock frowns. “I should not expect you to plan it all on your own.”

“You could say that’s what fiances do, yes.”

“Then I fail to see why you are so amused.”

“Sorry. I just never thought Sherlock Holmes, world’s only consulting detective, would ever help plan a wedding.  **Any** wedding.”

“I am full of surprises,” he shrugs and shoots John a mischievous grin. John’s fingers curl around Sherlock and squeeze.

“You certainly are.”

Sherlock leans in for a kiss, warm and wet. Their lips move together slowly and softly. John flicks his tongue out for the barest of touches to Sherlock’s bottom lip and sighs. The detective’s mouth is delicious and John nearly curses when they stop to breathe. Sherlock whispers against his doctor’s lips as he nips at them.

“It was inevitable once you came into my life.” 

John pulls away to look at Sherlock in surprise. He quickly ducks his head down in flustered embarrassment. The corners of Sherlock’s mouth quirk up as he continues.

“I thought something small with a few friends, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft. I would like to ask Greg to be my best man,” he pauses and John looks up to see hesitant eyes. “That is if you have no objections.”

“No. God, no. None. Asking Greg is a great idea. He’ll be honored.”

“Good,” Sherlock releases the breath he was holding, looking very relieved. “I didn’t want to interfere if he is who you’d wanted for your best man.”

“I was thinking about asking Mike Stamford, actually. Been friends since med school,” he pauses with an adorable smile, “and he did introduce us.”

They share a giggle and rest their foreheads together.

“Who would’ve thought?” John starts wistfully. Sherlock inhales to speak, but John cuts him off, looking at him sternly. “If you’re going to say you worked through the probability as soon as I walked in the lab or gave you my phone and our fingers brushed, don’t.”

“Actually, I was going to say that discovering my feelings for you was a complete, and very pleasant, surprise.” 

“Oh,” shifting his eyes sheepishly, his cheeks pinking. “Well, all right then. Sorry.”

Sherlock’s lips curl devilishly. His hands slide down to cup John’s lovely, round ass. The doctor, hands resting on the man’s chest, tilts his head and gives Sherlock a look of playful warning.

“You noticed our fingers brushing?” the detective asks him.

“Uh, maybe.”

John braces himself, trying to keep some space between them as Sherlock pulls him closer. It proves futile when his fiance slides one hand up his back to rest at his shoulder blades. He wears a seductive, little smile as he spreads light kisses and nips over John’s jawline, mouth, and neck with full lips. John exhales a deep, hot breath when his detective gently bites his earlobe.

“Christ, Sherlock,” he whispers breathlessly. “God, what you do to me.”

John‘s head drops back, granting unfettered access to his neck. Sherlock sets to work with enthusiasm - scraping teeth against soft skin, mouthing, kissing. John feels a deep rumble in Sherlock’s chest as he groans in pleasure when a thought suddenly occurs.

“Wait,” he pushes on Sherlock’s chest and the detective pauses to meet his eyes. “You noticed our fingers touching? You said your feelings surprised you.”

Sherlock gives him a brilliant smile and blows a teasing breath across John’s lips. John shivers, nearly helpless with desire, but waits for his flatmate to answer.

“I didn’t say when I discovered my feelings for you.”

Sherlock watches as his fiance’s eyes dilate to full darkness. Suddenly John seals his own mouth over Sherlock’s and groans indecently. Both men are dizzy with need. Soon pajamas are on the floor and John has two slick fingers inside Sherlock. His back arches with a light flutter over his prostate.

“Fuck, John. Now. Now!”

“Not yet,” the doctor mumbles. He mouths down miles of smooth, pale skin to Sherlock’s belly and stops, placing feather-soft touches with his tongue. He dips into his fiance’s navel, looking at him from under his lashes.

“FUCK!”

John can tell the man barely kept from coming the moment they met eyes. Shudders rack through Sherlock’s body, drawing John’s clever fingers deeper and prompting the doctor to focus all of his attention on massaging his lover until he falls apart.

John smiles wickedly and licks at the pre-come on Sherlock’s impossibly hard cock just before he descends upon it, sucking quickly and forcefully. In a few short minutes, he is swallowing bitter-sweet fluid and Sherlock is screaming. The orgasm is so all-encompassing, Sherlock barely notices when his legs are lifted to rest on John’s shoulders. His eyes snap open wide and full of lust when he feels the head of John’s prick pushing up to his hole. The two men lock eyes as John sinks in deep. Without much ado, he is pounding into his detective until he has an orgasm of his own. As he cries out, filling Sherlock, John feels the vague sensation of something splattering on his own belly. Given the circumstances, it is easy to ignore.

Once both men are able to think clearly again, they look at one another, panting together. Sherlock’s gaze shifts from John’s damp, sweat-covered face to his belly where he sees a healthy amount of semen dripping down toward the spot where their bodies meet perfectly like puzzle pieces. His eyes shoot back to John’s face. He is looking at it too. Wearing a rather sheepish look, Sherlock shrugs when John meets his eyes.

“Sorry,” his voice is timid, “I guess I wasn’t done that first time.”

John smiles widely, the perfect picture of John Watson, and Sherlock made him look that way, feel that way. Sherlock smiles too as John begins to laugh. As they giggle together, Sherlock feels frozen in time, in this moment. The love of his life melded with him, joined in the most intimate way conceivable. They are one and in more than just the physical, or in just this moment. 

Always. Forever.

John tumbles forward onto Sherlock, whose eyes widen in surprise at first, but soon close as their lips meet in a passionate kiss. The detective allows his mouth to be coaxed open quickly as his doctor licks inside it. Both men lose themselves completely in this one beautiful kiss. 

When their lips part, Sherlock feels dizzy again. His eyes flutter open to a sparkling deep blue gaze. He smiles and looks at his doctor with his own intense gaze. Trying desperately to feel his own limbs again, he suddenly feels the unexpected chill of a metal band touching his thigh. His smile grows and he kisses that adorable little nose lightly.

“Perhaps we should have a summer wedding,” he suggests nonchalantly.

John bursts into laughter with Sherlock. They curl into one another’s arms and are soon fast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so it was another fairly short chapter, but what a chapter! Am I right? It was a fun one to write, let me tell you. I hope you all enjoyed its sentiment and its steam. I'm not sure what to say about this one, other than what I've already said. Our intrepid duo picks up the case again in the next chapter, which I believe, will be a longer one. Keep your good eye out for it. I'm hoping to post it quickly.
> 
> I don't think DP would have many questions after this, or much to say at all, besides "Oh, god. Oh, yes. That was fucking incredible. Oh my god. You all carry on with your business. I'm just going to wait a few minutes and read that again. (an aside) Where's my unicorn?"
> 
> BAHAHAHAHA! If you've seen DP, you know what that means. Tee hee. As another aside, but to all of you, my 5 year old loves DP because he loves unicorns just like she does. Hahahahaha! Crying! (And no, she has never seen the movie. She only knows what I tell her and has seen his pic and merch EVERYWHERE. And she knows how much Mommy loves him. ;D )
> 
> Thanks for all the love and support. I truly will never get tired of saying that. You all are The Best.  
> Much love, Jane


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case continues.

Sherlock rises early. Only after spooning with John for a good half hour, of course. He was careful not to wake him while he snuggled and then rose out of bed. The doctor has always needed more sleep than the detective. Almost everyone needs more. Smiling down at John as he throws on a dressing gown, Sherlock chuckles quietly to himself. This man, this gorgeous man is his fiance. They will be husbands. Sherlock has already started thinking about all the wedding details and fully intends upon conscripting Mrs. Hudson to help. She. Will. Love it.

Sherlock slips out of the room and uses the loo in the hall so as to not wake John. Next he heads for the kitchen, putting the kettle on for tea and making a quick call to Greg.

“Giles rented a car and went west,” the DI updates him. “He stopped at a petrol station in Wincanton for snacks. Paid with a credit card.”

“Wincanton,” Sherlock mumbles to himself.

“Clearly, he doesn’t think we’re looking for him or he’d be more careful. But then why is he running at all?”

“He’s not running,” Sherlock says as the answer comes to him. “He’s going to Cornwall.”

“Cornwall?”

“The brother. Ben Travers. He must know something that can be used against Giles. He is in grave danger.”

“Great,” Greg sighs and then resumes a business-like tone. “I’ll talk to Travers and find out exactly where his brother’s farm is and text you. If Giles is after him, we need to warn Ben Travers.” 

“John and I will leave immediately.”

“Right. I’ll phone whatever local police and head out myself.”

Sherlock ends the call and strides back to the bedroom. He pulls open a closet door and yanks out a suitcase. He turns around to drop it on the bed and stops, his eyes falling on his sleeping doctor. John has rolled onto his back, but is not awake. A small smile creeps onto Sherlock’s face. He puts his case on the bed carefully and circles around it, eyes never leaving John’s face.

The bed sinks under his knees as Sherlock crawls in next to John’s body and softly nibbles on John’s neck. His head is turned to the side and angled as if daring Sherlock to take advantage of the situation. He ghosts his tongue over John’s neck and the man begins to stir. The doctor’s lips curl and he lets out a contented kind of moan, turning his head to face Sherlock. Sherlock immediately catches those lips with his own. The kiss is slow and lazy, perfect for the morning. Sherlock never wants it to stop and audibly grumbles when he must stop for a breath. John’s eyes open, sparkling blue up at Sherlock.

“Oh, hello,” he greets his lover in a sleepy voice.

“Good morning.”

John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s neck and kisses him again.

“I am going to marry you, Sherlock Holmes. I want to spend as much time as possible showing you just how excited I am about it.”

“Mmmm…” Sherlock begins, but is quickly cut off by John’s mouth on his. As the kiss deepens, Sherlock crawls onto John’s compact body and shifts until his hips rest upon John’s. Their erections rub together when John’s hands cup the detective’s delicious ass and pull him close. They each moan into the other’s mouth. For a split-second, Sherlock despises the case and everyone involved with it. Then he reluctantly pulls back and looks down at his fiance.

“Much as I’d love to do just that, I’m afraid we must leave for Cornwall.”

“Cornwall?” John frowns.

“Giles intends to murder Ben Travers.”

“The brother?” John asks. His lips press into a thin line when Sherlock nods. “Right.”

He moves to rise, but Sherlock holds him in place.

“We have a little time,” he cocks a brow, his eyes falling to John’s mouth. “Lestrade hasn’t sent the address yet.”

He kisses John again and, with a salacious grin, crawls down John’s body, pulling the covers off as he goes.

“You think so?” John asks in a mischievous tone. “We haven’t even packed yet.”

“We’ll be fine, Dr. Watson,” comes a low rumble as Sherlock’s lips close around the head of his cock and suck it gently. John growls and grabs at the back of the detective’s head, pulling him onto his dick. Sherlock smiles around it and glances up at John when a low moan radiates through the man’s body.

“God. Oh, god,” John gasps and bucks once. His eyes pop open. “Sorry, sorry. Are you okay?”

Sherlock’s reply is sudden and absolutely amazing. Sucking hard, hollowing his cheeks, twirling his tongue. His hand cups John’s balls and the man squirms at the touch, clearly trying to prolong the inevitable. Sherlock doesn’t let up. After a few minutes, he slides his fingers to John’s hole and presses the puckering skin ever so slightly. Taken completely by surprise, John comes hard into Sherlock’s mouth. He cries out and can’t stop his hips from bucking again a handful of times.

As his senses begin to return, John hauls Sherlock up his body and kisses him roughly. He tastes himself mixed with the delectable flavor of Sherlock and pulls his detective even closer. Arms are wrapping firmly around his body and rolling them both onto their sides.

“I’d say that was an undeniable success,” Sherlock remarks with a deep chuckle. 

“Oh, undeniable,” John grins. “You bastard.”

Sherlock laughs a loud belly laugh. One that is for John alone. John smiles wide and kisses Sherlock passionately. It feels so good and so right and John doesn’t think he will ever stop, but his detective pulls away and pouts when his mobile sounds with a text. No doubt, it is Greg with the address.

“Do  **not** start that, Sherlock Holmes. You’re the one who started this and you knew all along we were going to leave for Cornwall,” John scolds. His lips turn down into a frown when he sees that Sherlock is now struggling desperately not to smile. John narrows his eyes and Sherlock fails to stifle a giggle. “Right, that does it,” John crawls out of bed and heads for the ensuite. He stops in the doorway and looks back at Sherlock, wiggling his perfect ass just a bit. “I owe you one, you tit.”

***

The roughly five hour drive to Cornwall is uneventful. And amazing. The countryside they so seldom see is beautifully peaceful. The duo locate and arrive at Ben Travers’ farm near St. Ives just after 1pm. They park in front of a large house at the end of a long drive. There are two sizable barns and a few other buildings around the house. All around are acres of varying vegetables with groups of people working in some and none in others. Even further in the distance are fields of wheat, and large fenced-off pastures of lush green grass and grazing animals. John and Sherlock study the scene as they get out of their car.

“Finn Travers wasn’t kidding when he said it was big business,” John comments as he slams the car door shut.

“Indeed.”

“What do you think our chances are of finding Travers before sundown?” John sighs. “He could be anywhere.”

Sherlock nods once slowly, eyeing an older, scruffy-looking man talking to two younger men roughly halfway between where Sherlock and John are standing and the large house.

“I think he’s the person to help us,” the detective starts walking toward the man and John follows. The two younger men nod and stride away from the older man quickly. As Sherlock and John near him, the man looks to them and smiles. John is somewhat relieved, considering how stern the man had been with the other two men.

“Arfternoon,” he greets them. “Name’s Lol Brown. ‘Ow can I ‘elp you, gentlemen?”

He offers his hand warmly and Sherlock immediately takes it. His voice is deep and his accent thick.

“Sherlock Holmes. Good to meet you. This is my colleague, Dr. John Watson.”

Lol’s mouth slackens slightly as he shakes John’s hand. With a look of growing concern, he meets John’s eyes.

“Did you get a call from ‘ere on the farm, Doctor?”

“What? No, no. No such call was made,” John assures him. “We’re here on other business.”

“Ah, good, good,” he smiles again. “We ‘ave our mobiles, but news doesn’t always make it all ‘round.” He laughs good-naturedly. “So, ‘ow can I ‘elp?”

“We are looking for Ben Travers on a matter of the utmost importance. Do you know where he is?” Sherlock asks. Lol sighs, the sparkle in his eyes fading.

“It’s this awful business with ‘is brother, innit?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Poor boy. I’ve known the boys since they were lads. Ben’s all torn apart frommis. ‘E ‘ides it well, but I know. I cannah even imagine what Finn...” he trails off, his eyes suddenly widening. “Finn’s a’right, yes?”

“Yes, he’s fine, but we really need to talk with Ben right away,” John answers quickly. Lol sighs again and wipes his brow with a handkerchief.

“Thank god. I’m not a religious man, but even I know when to thank the powers that be,” he replaces the handkerchief in his back pocket and waves the other arm in a great sweeping motion. “Emmy! Emmy!”

Some distance away, a dark-haired woman, maybe five years Sherlock’s junior, looks up from her conversation with a small group of men. She returns her attention to the group and finishes her remarks. The men nod, make short agreements, and head off. At that point, Emmy jogs over.

“Wat‘sup, Lol?”

“These ‘ere men came all the way from London to see Ben. ‘E’s in the far north field. Would you take ‘em?”

Her eyes flick over them quickly. John is suddenly glad they left their coats in the car. Sherlock still sticks out like a sore thumb in his tailored suit, but it would have been far worse in his long Belstaff.

“Sure,” Emmy smiles, clearly very amused. “Truck’s this way. Lol.”

She gives him a playful bow and starts walking as the older man laughs. She motions to John and Sherlock to follow. They glance at one another and comply. As the trio approaches a dirt-covered pick-up, Emmy dials her mobile and curses under her breath when she gets no answer. She punches in another number and gestures for them to get in the vehicle. Sherlock looks at John blankly. The doctor looks up at him with a little smile, quite sure his slender flatmate has never been so close to a pick-up in his life. As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock narrows his eyes and vows revenge.

“Just climb in,” John utters quietly, trying not to giggle.

Emmy is already sitting in the driver’s seat and turning the key. Fortunately, she is speaking on the mobile and paying them no mind. Sherlock stands his ground and looks down at John.

“In the back,” John jerks his head toward the truck bed. The tall man turns and nearly falls climbing in while John stifles a chuckle and gets in the passenger seat. Sherlock sits on his knees right by the cab’s glassless back window and frowns at John’s bright smile. Emmy turns to them both, revving the engine.

“All set? We’re off then. Hang on.”

Her foot presses the accelerator and the pick-up takes off down a bumpy dirt road far faster than either man expected. Thrown off balance and completely startled, Sherlock topples over and out of sight. When he reappears, it is with his hands stationed firmly on the window frame to keep steady as they speed along. Emmy grins, her short hair swirling around her face in the breeze created solely by her driving. John turns toward her and the detective.

“We haven’t been introduced properly. I’m Dr. John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Emmy Rouper. And you’re in luck, Dr. John Watson and Sherlock ‘Olmes. Ben’s still in the ‘igh field.”

“Oh, ta,” John continues. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“You work for Ben Travers?” Sherlock pipes up from behind.

“Aye. Five years now. Known Ben and Finn since University. Finnis ‘is brother.”

“Yes, we are acquainted with Finn Travers.”

“Are you?” she asks hesitantly. Suddenly her cheerful ease is replaced with concern and fear. She looks over at John with a side glance. “Aw, god. Is Finn okay? After what ‘appened to Braeden…”

“He’s fine. Perfectly safe. Sherlock and I are working with New Scotland Yard on the case.”

“Oh. Oh! Well, that makes sense,” she considers his words, her voice growing calmer. “Couldn’t think what two posh blokes from London would want with Ben.“

“No one else has sought out Mr. Travers of late?” Sherlock inquires with interest.

“Nope. Some detective phoned ‘im to ask questions about Finn and Braeden. Finn ‘ad already talked to ‘im and said the police would call. Ben ‘asn’t slept well since and workin’ long hours. ‘E’s gettin’ to the enda ’is rope,” she explains with a hint of worry seeping into her voice. Sherlock and John give one another a knowing look.

“You and Mr. Travers are close?” the detective asks innocently.

“Aye.”

While John is delighted that Sherlock asked so tactfully, he decides quickly that the next question should come from him before the detective loses his patience and deduces the young woman where she sits.

“I hate to pry, but are you intimately involved?” he asks. Emmy gives him another side look and smirks.

“You  **are** posh, aren’t you? Yeah, Ben and I are ‘intimately involved’.”

“For just over a year, I’d say. But his brother doesn’t know. Why have you kept it a secret, Miss Rouper?”

Emmy’s eyes rapidly shift from the road to her view of Sherlock in the rear mirror. Her brows knitting together, she gives him the evil eye. 

“ ‘Ow the ‘ell do you know that? Just ‘oo the ‘ell are you?!”

“I am a consulting detective and John is my colleague. We work with New Scotland Yard, as John said.”

“Oh, yeah?” Emmy sneers. “Well, you sure as ‘ell know a lot more than Ben told ‘em.”

“Yeah, look,” John rushes to explain before this goes very, very badly, “Sherlock is an exceptional detective and keenly observant. He can read people within minutes of meeting them.” Looking thoroughly unconvinced, Emmy glowers in his direction. John wets his lips and tries another tact. “We believe Ben is in danger. We really do need to speak with him.”

“Ben in danger?” Emmy frowns.

“Yes. Anything you can tell us would help us ensure his safety. A Detective Inspector Lestrade is on his way here and will confirm what we’re telling you, but we don’t have the time to waste waiting for him. Please.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at the please, but knows John is nothing if not a master of care and understanding. Consequently, Emmy’s expression softens minutely and she nods as she glances from John’s face to his own in the rear mirror.

“A’right,” she says reluctantly. “Ben and I have been together almost a year and a half.”

“Yes, yes. Boring,” the detective grumbles impatiently. “Why would Travers not want his brother to know? It’s not jealousy. Finn’s relationship was quite firm. Not because he dislikes you. You’re not a gold digger or a slag.”

“Sherlock!”

The detective stops abruptly and looks at John, having gotten so caught up in thought that he’d momentarily forgotten he was not alone. Before John can say another word, Emmy slams on the brakes and brings the pick-up to a screeching sideways stop on the dirt road. Sherlock flies away from the back window, his back hitting the side of the truck bed with a thud. John is turning around to check that he’s all right when their angry driver turns her body sharply so she can look Sherlock in the eye.

“People may be used to shucking their manners at the door in London, but we respect each other ‘ere. Give each other the benefit of the doubt. So before you try to ‘read’ anything else,  **Mister** ‘Olmes, why don’t you just ask me and get the real goddamn answer?”

An awkward moment of silence passes and John’s jaw drops at what happens next.

“I am sorry, Miss Rouper.”

Emmy stares at him a bit longer and starts letting herself calm down. Before long, her muscles are relaxing and she shrugs.

“Ta,” she turns back to the steering wheel and pulls back onto the road. Glancing at both men again, she begins to explain. “We never meant to keep it from Finn for this long. I mean, we never really planned to tell ‘im at all.”

“What?” John squints at her in confusion. “I’m trying to understand how that makes sense.”

“It all started on a lark. Ben and I, we just fell into bed one night after spending most of it trying to put out a barn fire. We thought it was a one-off and agreed not to tell anyone.” The two men nod, beginning to understand. “Then came the thunderstorm and the wheat ‘arvest, and then a big veg ‘arvest. That one was three nights in a row. We kept meeting up after a long, ‘ard day’s work to burn off some steam until we realized we’d been doing it for months.”

“Decided it wasn’t a one-off then?” John smiles slyly, always happy to see two people in love. Emmy glances at him with a smile of her own.

“Right.”

“But why continue to keep it from Finn and Braeden?” Sherlock wants to know. She shrugs.

“I dunno. Just never came up on any of their visits, I guess. We aren’t ‘idin’ it. We’re juss not...makin’ it obvious? Damn, that sounds lame.”

She laughs. John and Sherlock remain silent while Emmy steers adeptly, but recklessly, through a grouping of large boulders. By the time they are past it, the two men find themselves wide-eyed and hanging on for dear life.

“Almos there now.”

“Has Ben mentioned hearing from a Justin Giles recently?” the detective asks a bit weakly, trying to distract himself from his rolling stomach.

“Aye. They’re ‘aving dinner in town tonight.”

“And when is dinner?”

“ ‘Round eight,” she laughs. “When is it for posh gents? You turn in early too?”

Sherlock leans into their head space with a very serious expression on his face.

“We  **must** speak with Ben before he goes to dinner. It is crucial.”

“A’right, a’right. No worries, ‘Olmes. ‘Ere we are.”

Emmy drives the pick-up up close alongside a wheat field. She points to a barely visible tractor a fair distance within the field. Any people with it must be on the ground, hidden by the rolling wheat. Emmy stops the pick-up and dials her mobile, as she climbs out. John and Sherlock follow suit, peering into the field.

“The wheat shouldn’t be this high,” Sherlock remarks with a frown on his face.

“Ben’s tryin’ a new ‘ybrid. It can grow up to seven feet tall if you’re good at it.”

“It’s six now.” 

“As tall as you, eh?” John elbows him with a smirk. Sherlock looks down at him and frowns.

“This hardly seems like a moment for flirtation, John.”

“Oi! I got two visitors for ya out ‘ere. Where the ‘ell are ya?” she pauses and turns her head to look at a spot in the field a few feet from the tractor. “Four meters west of the… What kinda answer is that? You want me to what?” She casts a doubtful look at John and Sherlock and turns her back. Lowering her voice, she continues. “Ben, you ‘aven’t seen these blokes.”

Sherlock turns his frown on her and huffs. He turns back to John and says quietly.

“I don’t know what she means. We are perfectly capable of handling ourselves in the country. You were in Afghanistan and I am very experienced in a variety of situations.”

“Okay, babe,” John pats his friend’s arm with a smile.

“That was decidedly dismissive, John Watson,” Sherlock’s voice is haughty, his expression indignant. “I will have you know that…”

“A’right, lads. I’m taking ya in the field,” Emmy interrupts. “Stay with me and you’ll make it out with no worries.”

Sherlock and John stand by the wheat field and wait while Emmy gathers some equipment. John’s eyes keep darting from the top of Sherlock’s head to the top of the wheat. The detective cocks a brow.

“Something on your mind, John?”

“Is it me or is the wheat just a little taller than you?” John answers playfully. “Maybe more like Mycroft’s size?”

The taller man steps close to John, narrowing his eyes and lowering his voice to a dangerous rumble.

“I know where all your most ticklish places are, John.”

The doctor grins as Emmy appears by his side and suddenly takes his hand in hers. Both men look at her with confused expressions. She looks back at them, waiting.

“You, ‘Olmes, ‘old ‘is ‘and.” Sherlock furrows his brow and straightens his back, befuddled. “What? London blokes don’t ‘old ‘ands? Easiest way to stay together. Now do it. C’mon.”

John takes the detective’s hand with a little smile and looks to Emmy with a nod.

“Right. Let’s go and don’t drop ‘ands. You’ll never find your way out.”

“I highly doubt that,” Sherlock mutters under his breath, but Emmy still hears him. She rolls her eyes and leads them into the tall grass.

***

As they follow Emmy into the tall wheat field **,** John can see what she meant by getting lost. The tops of the stalks are a good six inches over his head and just slightly over Sherlock’s, but he’d expected that. What hadn’t expected was how thick the wheat is. The three can see one another easily, but John has a feeling that if he let go of Emmy’s hand and she moved ahead another three feet, he would have no idea where she’d gone. Sherlock could likely jump up high enough to see the field’s edge if he was close enough to it, but not John. He squeezes Sherlock’s hand tightly and feels a squeeze in return.

After a few minutes of walking, they can hear several voices. Soon they step into a clearing made for the tractor that was not visible from the field’s edge. Two men are poking around the bottoms of the wheat stalks with another on the other side. Emmy looks at them and puts her hands on her hips.

“Where the ‘ell is ‘ee?!”

The three men stop working and turn toward them smiling. Just then, arms wrap around Emmy’s waist from behind and make to lift her off her feet. She gives a surprised yelp, but John’s hand is on the man’s shoulder in an instant. Suddenly free from the man’s arms, Emmy spins around to see him flat on his back with John hovering over him, hand at the man’s throat in warning. Everyone is wide-eyed and even Sherlock is startled at John’s speed. A warm and delicious feeling pools in his belly, but he shakes it off immediately.

“Oi, Watson!” Emmy shouts, arms outstretched toward John in an attempt to halt any further action. “It’s okay! It’s Ben! It’s just Ben.”

John glances at Emmy and then rises. He extends a hand to help the dark-haired man to his feet. Once Ben Travers stands at his full height, John sees he is around Sherlock’s size. His shoulders are broader and his body is that of a man used to physical labor. Ben brushes remnants of wheat from his own curls and smiles down at John, extending a hand.

“Well done, mate. Glad I know not to get on your bad side. Ben Travers.”

“Sorry about that, “ John shakes his hand and nods to Sherlock. “Dr. John Watson. Sherlock Holmes.”

“No trouble. No trouble at all.”

Ben shakes Sherlock’s hand warmly. John tilts his head slightly to the side as he watches the two men. If he didn’t know better, he would think them brothers. The only outstanding difference being Ben’s natural tan and Sherlock’s pale skin.

“We are investigating the death of Braeden Fox. Is there somewhere we might speak to you?” Sherlock starts in.

“Finn!” the color drains from Ben’s face. “He’s okay??”

“Yes, he is fine. This is about Mr. Fox only. May we?”

“Yeah, all right,” Ben breathes a sigh of relief. “Walk with me.” He gestures toward the tractor and turns back to the others. “You’ll take the tractor back, yeah? I’ll drive these two in the truck.”

“You know where it is?” Emmy taunts and Ben smirks back at her.

“I’ll find it. See you later.”

“Of course, ya smartarse,” she smiles, then gives John an aside. “Looks like I misjudged you, Watson. You’ll ‘ave to tell me where you learned that later.”

They share a smile and John nods as he turns to walk with Sherlock and Ben through the cleared passage. The two tell Ben some of the case’s finer points and ask him all of their most relevant questions. All leading up to Giles’ involvement, at which point they stop walking and face the man. Sherlock opens his mouth, but pauses when they hear the tractor start. He waits a moment until the noise of it fades.

“I have identified Fox’s killer. We are here to apprehend him. Detective Inspector Lestrade and some other officers will be joining us.”

“Braeden’s killer is here? In Cornwall?!”

“Indeed, yes. You are planning to have dinner with him tonight.”

“Justin??” Ben stops moving completely, staring at the detective and his blogger like they each have two heads. “You’ve gotta be shittin’ me. We went to school together. Finn and Justin have been thick as thieves for years!”

“And Finn knew Justin would never approve of his bisexuality,” Sherlock persists. “He asked you to keep his secret.”

“Justin wouldn’t kill someone for that,” the man shakes his head. “He wouldn’t kill someone at all!”

“Finn wanted to marry Braeden,” John holds up one hand as if to calm him. The words stop Ben in his tracks, quickly dissolving what looked like an angry advance on Sherlock. He twists his head abruptly to look down at the shorter man, back at Sherlock, and at John again.

“Justin must have found out somehow. Once he decided to kill him, he got close to Braeden’s secretary to learn his habits and poisoned him,” John explains.

“Now he intends to kill the one person who can provide evidence against him and that man is you.”

“Me?!” Ben barks an unbelieving laugh. Sherlock steps close to him and glares.

“You, Mr. Travers. Now think, think! What do you know? What could you tell us that would incriminate him?”

Ben puts his tongue in his cheek and blows out a quick breath, shaking his head. He ruffles a hand through his dark curls.

“I have no idea.”

“Nothing? Nothing at all?”

Ben shrugs, looking quite troubled. Sherlock throws his hands up and huffs. He steps over into John’s personal space, his annoyed expression close to John’s face.

“Nothing!” he repeats.

“Yeah, Sherlock, I know. Just…”

Sherlock turns back to Ben and looks at him intensely.

“I intend to use your dinner plans to arrest Giles. In the meantime, you have all afternoon to consider the question,” Sherlock glances at his mobile and turns to John. “Lestrade just texted. He’s been delayed, but will still be here for dinner.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes,” Ben interrupts. “I just can’t believe Justin would hurt anyone. Let alone me.”

“Be that as it may, he did befriend Fox’s secretary as a means to kill him. Officers are interviewing her again as we speak. Perhaps you will find her testimony more compelling.”

“We’ll see,” he replies dismissively. “Can you two stay with me in the field without holding hands?”

“Lead the way,” John says congenially. He and Sherlock follow as Ben guides them through the wheat. Sherlock mutters to himself all the way. John puts a hand to Sherlock’s chest to stop him at the edge of the wheat as Ben walks out and over to the pick-up.

“Just cool it, right,” John tells him in a low voice. “You’re telling the man his version of Mike Stamford murdered his future brother-in-law. He’ll come around, especially once Greg gets here with the hard evidence in that testimony.”

“I have given him hard evidence,” the detective snaps quietly. “I’ve explained the case in full.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t know you. He knows the secretary and he knows his brother. He trusts them,” Sherlock rolls his eyes and they hear a shout from Ben. John stands on his tip toes and gives Sherlock’s frown a quick peck. “You’ll get Giles.” He turns to step out of the wheat, but stops Sherlock again. “Don’t be rude.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes again behind John’s back, but still watches his ass as he walks out of the field. Sherlock steps from the wheat with a smirk on his face.

“There you are,” Ben says, heading for them. “I thought you were lost for a minute there.”

They’re soon in the pick-up, driving toward the large farmhouse. Ben explains the rest of his chores for the day at Sherlock’s request as they go. He laughs heartily when the detective informs him that he and John will stay with Ben the rest of the day, making a trip to the house unnecessary.

“And what do you think you’ll be doing all afternoon?” Ben laughs.

“Learning more about Giles’ past, determining more about his motive, and protecting you, of course, should he try to make contact before tonight.”

“Protect me? Look, I may have thrown out my suspicions about your friend, but you?” he turns his head to where Sherlock sits in the passenger seat and chortles. “You wouldn’t last ten minutes in the fields. Not in that get-up.”

Ben glances at Sherlock’s dress shoes in particular and then back at the road as they bounce along. The detective stiffens and adopts a haughty expression.

“I am perfectly capable of handling myself.”

“Sure, sure. But you won’t be talking to me or the lads, m’lud. We’ll be hard at work. Something you decidedly cannot do.” 

“On the contrary, Mr. Travers,” Sherlock narrows his eyes, but John interrupts before he can say something rude. He also wants to change the subject before he has the opportunity to see what it would look like if Sherlock got into a fistfight with himself.

“If you’ll forgive me, Travers.”

“Ben.”

“Ben,” John smiles and nods personably, “the accent here is very strong, but you don’t seem to have it.”

“I didn’t grow up here and I’ve never been one for picking up accents,” Ben shrugs. 

“Oh? Where did you grow up then?”

“Hampshire. Farnham.”

“Farnham? Really? I grew up in Aldershot.”

“You’re having me on,” he smiles.

“Not at all. Remember the old fairs?” John laughs and Ben joins in as he nods. “You’d never have known me though. I have a good eight or nine years on you. We never would have crossed paths.”

The two men talk easily as Ben continues to drive, diverting from his route to the house. He takes a moment to phone Emmy. All the while, Sherlock watches and listens. Early on in the conversation, he rolls his eyes a great deal, but he eventually just observes and marvels at the man who is to be his husband. Relating to others and getting them to open up comes so easily to John. He is the perfect mix of friendly, social, and inquisitive. Never coming off as nosy or abrasive. It is a talent Sherlock knows he will never master or even understand. Nor will he understand how a man like John Watson came to love him, but Sherlock is very glad he did.

By the time Ben stops the pick-up in a pasture of sheep and makes his excuses, also telling them they’d best stay in the truck if they don’t want to step in shit, Sherlock is lost in thought. John watches Ben stride to some farmhands and begin his business before glancing at Sherlock. It’s the look in his detective’s eyes that catches his attention.

“Hey. You okay?” he asks. Sherlock’s eyes shift to John’s. “Visiting the mind palace?”

Sherlock clears his throat and shifts around in his seat so he can look at John.

“Actually…I was thinking about you.”

John gives him a genuine smile.

“Were you? Instead of the case?”

“Mmm. It’s becoming more difficult not to think of you.” John looks about to speak, but Sherlock continues quickly before he can. “I don’t mind. Not at all.”

“Good. I’m glad you aren’t worried that I’ll dim your senses.”

“You do nothing but aid me, John. Whatever I feared before, I was wrong.“

As John smiles and touches Sherlock’s hand, the detective wants nothing more than to lean close to those lips and kiss them. To breathe in John’s scent mixed with fresh country air. To hold him close to feel John’s warmth against Sherlock’s own body. But they are working and a working relationship they must maintain. However, Sherlock vows silently that he cannot be held responsible for his actions once the case is over and they are alone in a hotel room for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How'd you like this chapter, friends? I love it. As well as the next few chaps. They remind me of my honeymoon in Cornwall. It was gorgeous and so much fun. A friend of my husband's was there with us. I know, I know, odd for a honeymoon, but it was brilliant. He grew up in Cornwall and took us all around. His family still lives there and we met up with all of them every night for dinner. He even gifted us his sister's cottage that she rents out. If you ever have the chance to go there, GO.
> 
> Now, back to the story. I love this case and invested a lot of time into letting it develop. The characters I created for it are some of my faves. I also had a lot of fun with the accent. I also wanted to use it to make my own personal statement about something, but you'll see that later.
> 
> And now, without further ado...  
> * Will things go as planned when Giles shows up?  
> * Will Greg really show up in time for dinner? Just what is slowing him down anyway?  
> * Will John find any apples in Cornwall?  
> * Will the boys get a chance to see the sights of the west country and will it be on their terms? (that's a bit of foreshadowing, btw)
> 
> I'm working on the next chapter and hope to get it out soon. Love you all and thanks for your support.  
> Good luck and good night.  
> Love, Jane


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a short chapter, but it packs a punch.

When the workday comes to an end, Ben Travers trots his way back to the pick-up one last time and drives John and Sherlock to the farm house. He goes to the loo for a shower as soon as they arrive, forcing the detective and his blogger to wait before they can talk about the plan for dinner. Making up his mind to not pace around the house like a fool, John resolves to make some tea and relax a bit while he has the chance. He settles himself in the sitting room, bringing some extra cups along in case anyone should happen by.

Sitting peacefully and sipping his tea, John considers the plan he and Sherlock discussed over the course of the afternoon. It’s very simple as plans go. The duo and police are more or less going to lie in wait at the restaurant and arrest Giles as soon as he walks in the door. One could say Ben is the bait, but he will be in no danger. Unless, of course, Giles has a gun and decides to shoot Ben upon realizing there’s no escape. John pointed this out to Sherlock throughout the day’s discussion, but the detective quickly shot him down each time.

_ “Don’t be absurd, John. The man hasn’t the stomach for blood or the ability to obtain a firearm. He chose poison for Fox in spite of having only a mediocre idea of how to use it.” _

_ “Exactly my point, Sherlock. He was determined to kill Fox and now he’ll turn the same attention to Ben. Men in desperate situations do things not normally in their character.” _

“ _ Again, no means of obtaining a firearm. He simply does not have the resources and Travers is his friend. He poisoned a man he doesn’t like, in spite of ready access to knives and blunt instruments. He’s not going to kill a friend in a violent way. What he’s most likely to do is poison the food on Travers’ plate the first time he leaves the table and hope he’s not still sitting there when he dies.” _

Sherlock had made a compelling argument and, while he is probably right, John is still more comfortable with the plan knowing that his sig is tucked away on his person. Not to mention all the police that will be around.

As John sips his tea, he finds himself thinking about Sherlock himself rather than the case. After all they have been through together: case after case, nightmares, arguments, each nearly being killed more than a few times, Magnussen, Mary, Moriarty. His thoughts stop at that name. The apples at Tesco and the Yard return to his mind, consuming all other thoughts. Sherlock has not heard from Mycroft on the matter and they both assume he has found nothing. Is it even possible? No one was there to pull Moriarty from the water. Could he have still been conscious and gotten to shore? It’s impossible, John knows, but the apples… John scrubs his hands through his hair. It must all be coincidence. It has to be. Or maybe he’s just losing his mind. Maybe he didn’t see the apples at all and just imagined them. It wouldn’t be the first time he hallucinated as a result of PTSD. John sighs and drops his face into his hands.

“John?”

The doctor’s head snaps up to see Sherlock walking into the room. He straightens up quickly and schools his expression, but not before worry shows in the detective’s features.

“Sherlock, you want some tea?”

“Yes, please,” he replies with a furrowed brow. John clears his throat and pours a cup. Sherlock watches him mix in cream and sugar as he nears. John’s hand trembles ever so slightly as he taps the spoon on the cup’s edge and places it on the tea tray. Sherlock stands close, putting a hand on John’s shoulder before he can lift the cup and saucer to hand to him.

“John,” their eyes meet, “what’s wrong? Not the case.”

“No,” John whispers, closing his eyes. Sherlock takes John’s hands in his own and sits on the sofa facing him. He lifts one hand to John’s cheek and the doctor opens his eyes.

“What is it, John? Won’t you tell me?”

“It’s Moriarty. I can’t shake it. The idea that he made it out of the water,” his eyes widen as a frightening thought forces its way into his mind. “What about that man? The one Molly found evidence of in that flat across from ours? The one he always had spying on you. What if he followed you to the island, saw the two of you go over the edge, and went in after Moriarty?”

“It’s plausible.  Mycroft and I have discussed the possibility. He is exploring it.”

“Or maybe it’s him. Maybe he’s leaving the apples. Mycroft said he’d worked with Moriarty more than once. Maybe he’s angry and wants revenge.”

“Possible, but unlikely. Whether working together once or repeatedly, all of Moriarty’s cohorts were paid for their work. It is just as easy to obtain a job from elsewhere. No real motivation for vengeance.”

“I know. I just…” he pulls away from Sherlock and runs his hands through his hair in frustration. He doesn’t want to tell his fiance that he may have imagined it all. Obviously not the apple in Greg’s office, but any officer could have put it or left it there. No one saw any of the other apples and how unusual is it for one to have been left out of its section in produce by a kid or shopper? But the apple by the noodles...but it disappeared the moment Sally turned up. John squeezes his eyes shut in anguish. He cannot resolve his feelings or organize his thoughts well enough to make sense of this. “God, I wish I could shake this.”

Sherlock puts his hand on John’s knee and gives it a squeeze. He ducks his chin down to meet John’s lowered eyes with his own. John looks up a little timidly. He feels like such an idiot.

“You will. And I will be with you. I will listen or talk or comfort - whatever you need. I want to be the best husband to you that I can be.”

“You are amazing,” John smiles wistfully.

“It is merely what husbands do, is it not?” Sherlock shrugs, but his lips curl into a grin. They share a quiet chuckle. “John, I know how you feel about this. You hide it well, but your eyes always speak the truth.”

“Ha,” trying to hold back his emotions, ”so I’m an open book to everyone then. Great.”

“No. Not everyone,” the detective is very serious again. John looks at him and then glances away.

“Sherlock…”

His hands cup John’s cheeks and they lock eyes. Sherlock’s are soft and sensitive.

“Please don’t feel you have to hide anything from me. I will not judge. You are not weak or foolish. You are human,” he pauses to let his words sink in before he continues. “I have said it before, but it bears repeating. You’re the bravest, strongest man I know.”

John blinks a few times, the feeling of tears pricking his eyes. How does this man always manage to touch his very soul? John smiles one of utter love and happiness.

“Sherlock Holmes, it’s always been you. You keep me right.”

The detective angles his eyes upward and adopts a thoughtful expression, but John can tell he is taking the piss.

“Mmm. I believe it’s the other way around, don’t you think?” his gaze slides back to John’s face. His lips curve into a small smile. “I’m fairly certain.”

John laughs and kisses Sherlock. His lips are so soft and full. By far, the most perfect lips in all of England. And oh, how he uses them. A kiss from Sherlock Holmes should be a felony.

John groans as Sherlock’s tongue delicately sweeps over his lips and he can’t help but open his own in response. It ventures in slowly and moves in a way John has never felt before. He feels like he’s floating. His hands are in dark curls, his mouth moving with Sherlock’s. God, that mouth.

John pulls back when he starts to feel dizzy. When he opens his eyes, he is greeted by big silver eyes and a pouting mouth. John would swear to god and all the angels that it is the sexist face he’s ever seen.

“If you want me to be any use at all during the arrest,” he swallows hard, “we have to stop now.”

“You see? Quite the opposite,” Sherlock smiles breathlessly. “ **You** keep  **me** right, John Watson.”

John descends into giggles and Sherlock soon follows. Once their quiet laughter has died down, the two men grow more serious and discuss the night’s plan again.

“Hold on. Greg isn’t here yet? We’re doing this in a little over an hour and Greg isn’t even here?”

“It’s intolerable, but the plan will still work,” the detective explains. “When I last spoke to Greg, he assured me he’d be here, though only just in time. He knows the restaurant and the plan. However, if he does not arrive…”

“Sherlock,” John gives him a warning look.

“I trust you have the sig?”

“Of course I do. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he shares a look with his flatmate and stands. “Ben must be ready soon. I’ll just put all this in the kitchen.”

“Need any help?”

“No, I’ve got it. I’ll just rinse them out and be right back.”

Sherlock watches him go, casting an appreciative eye to the doctor’s ass as he goes. He smiles to himself and stands. Looking at the countryside through the window, he decides to step out on the house’s large porch. It’s an unusual house in a way. Rather more like a southern plantation house in America than one in Cornwall, with a large front porch and pillars. The roof of the porch is a balcony for the second floor. The structure looks as though it was transplanted from another place and time.

Sherlock sighs and strolls across its width to the white wooden railing around its edges. He watches tractors driving slowly to barns and sheds for the night, farmhands collecting equipment in the surrounding fields, animals grazing. Such a peaceful life. So different from the noise and hurry of London. Sherlock loves London and all the exciting cases it has to offer. But if he was older and tired, would he enjoy the quiet leisure of the country?

Sherlock’s mind is suddenly filled with images of himself and John as retired husbands living in an airy country cottage. He would raise bees, of course. He and John would take long, slow walks. Maybe they would have a garden and plant peas, among other things. They could spend entire days together in the cottage without ever putting on a stitch of clothing. Sherlock’s eyes widen and brows raise. Why can’t they do that now? They’re alone at the flat. Mrs. Hudson comes in without warning, but they could lock the door or leave a note on the door.

So distracted is he by thoughts of a naked John Watson roaming through 221B with a ‘Come fuck me’ smile on his face that he doesn’t hear quiet footsteps on the porch until it is too late. Without warning, Sherlock is struck with something heavy right at the base of his skull. His vision goes black in an instant and he falls to the floor painfully, his limbs not even attempting to break his fall. The side of his head pounds onto the porch and gives a little bounce when it hits. Sherlock’s brain registers a quiet voice as he slips into unconsciousness.

“I’m sorry, Ben. I’m really am so sorry.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh shit! Oh no! Giles mistook Sherlock for Ben. Goddammit, he thinks he's Ben!
> 
> I think I can hear you all yelling one by one somewhere in the distance as you reach the end of the chapter. Needless to say, Sherlock is in quite a pickle this time. What's Giles going to do when he realizes he's taken someone who looks like Ben, but isn't him? Does not look good for Sherlock. Nope, not at all. 
> 
> Looks like I've already stumbled into the DP questions, so bring it.  
> * How the fuck is John going to find Sherlock? Will it be too late? Is this the fall? Hmm? I know he fell off the cliff already, and with Moriarty even like the Sherlock of books, but this could get pretty bad.  
> * Where the bloody hell is Greg?? What or who is delaying him? Is it Sally? HAS she left the side of the angels as Purrfect suggested?  
> * Will Giles get his hands on Ben too?  
> Yikes, friends! So many questions and many more I didn't mention. Gah!
> 
> I thought I'd take a moment to remind you all of how I said this Part might go into extended chapters. Well, I was wrong. It all broke down into ten after all and I will be posting chapter ten, the last chapter tomorrow. Da da daaaaaa!! I hope you all like it. Until then, friends, feel free to tell me how you feel and what you think. I love you all.  
> You're the best! Much love, Jane


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, friends, chapter 10!  
> I wanted to post it at noon and it is now 2. So much for being on time. Haha.  
> I hope you all like it. No spoilers, so...
> 
> The case continues.

Greg Lestrade has debriefed local police, as well as Sally Donovan and Dimmock, and everyone is in position for the arrest of Justin Giles. He and his two cohorts arrived not fifteen minutes ago and organizing all the officers involved was no small task. Every person in the small restaurant is on the police force, masquerading as a patron or server. Greg plans to arrest Giles as soon as he takes a seat. It should be quick and easy with no violence, no fuss. However, it is not without its challenges. For example, the question on Greg’s mind is where the hell are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson? Greg looks to his mobile, hoping for a message as Sally Donovan appears at his side.

“Everyone’s in place. Where’s the dynamic duo?” she asks.

“They’re not here yet.”

“Our man is going to be here in ten minutes,” she blurts angrily. “Where the hell are they?!”

“I know, I know,” he dials a number and holds the mobile to his ear. He waits for an answer, tapping his foot. Sally opens her mouth to speak, but he holds up a hand when he hears John’s voice. “John, we’re at the restaurant. It’s all set. Where are you?”

“Greg, thank god. I need you at the house. Sherlock’s missing.”

“Missing?”

“For about an hour now.”

“He’s probably just gone off on his own. Something to do with the case.”

“No, Greg. I found blood and his mobile on the porch.”

“Blood?” he is suddenly on alert. Sally’s ears perk up and she looks at Greg with concern.

“Just a few drops. We’ve searched the house and immediate grounds. There was more blood in the drive… and tire tracks.”

“I’m leaving right now. Just hold tight,” he turns to Sally. “We’re going to the farmhouse.”

“Dimmock knows what to do here if anyone shows,” she nods sternly. “Let’s go.”

Greg fills in Sally with what little information he has as he speeds to the farm. Most of the ride is spent in silence that is only interrupted by the voice of the GPS. Though he hasn’t said a word and has maintained his professional demeanor, Sally can tell Greg is worried.

“You’re concerned about Sherlock,” she ventures. Greg doesn’t answer. “He’s your friend. It’s okay.”

“It’s not bloody okay,” he growls. “I’m your superior officer.”

“Greg, it’s okay. I understand,” she tries again, reaching for one of his hands.

“Turn left in 12 meters. Congratulations! You have reached your destination. Would you like a jelly baby?” the GPS chirps in a cheerful male voice.

Greg pulls his hand away from Sally and turns into the long drive. It’s 8pm on the dot and the sun is getting lower in the sky, but there is still more than enough light to see. And the sight that greets them when they come to a stop is John Watson striding toward their car. Greg and Sally get out and meet John half way.

“Any sign of him?” Greg asks.

“Not a trace,” John shakes his head. “Giles must’ve taken him.”

“You think he means to swap him for Travers?”

“If that’s what he wants, why hasn’t he tried to contact us?” John looks at Greg grimly. “I don’t think that’s it at all.”

“Right,” Greg steels himself for a long night. “Donovan.”

“Giles isn’t at the restaurant,” she nearly cuts him off, mobile at her ear. “He’s late.”

“Reinstate the APB on his rental car and make sure all the police in Cornwall have his description and Sherlock’s.”

“Right.”

“I want to see Travers.”

“He’s in the house,” John says as he leads the way. They walk up the stairs and onto the porch. John opens the front door and waits for Greg to enter. “He’s in the sitting room. To the left.”

Greg stops and puts a hand on John’s shoulder before he can take another step.

“We’ll find him, John,” he tells him in a comforting voice. John swallows and nods. Greg can see the concern in his eyes plainly now and hopes the confidence in his voice helps John. Greg feels nowhere near as certain as he sounded.

Ben turns to face them when they enter the sitting room, worry written all over his face. Greg knows immediately that experience is the only reason John’s face isn’t a mirror image.

“Ben Travers, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

They shake hands and exchange quick greetings. Ben turns quickly to John.

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you before, John. I should’ve believed you,” his voice is shaking ever so slightly.

“Why are you so anxious to now?” Greg inquires, instantly suspicious. John levels serious eyes on the taller man.

“Ben, what’s wrong? Have you heard from Giles?”

Ben straightens up and sighs tremulously. Nodding, he holds out his mobile to John and Greg.

“Just now.”

John takes the phone and reads aloud.

“ ‘I’m coming to the house tonight. I know about the police. Get rid of them.’ “

“Right,” Greg begins in a commanding tone. “I’m clearing the restaurant. Are there ways to get here that aren’t main roads?”

“Yes. Local police will know them.“

“Good. We’ll have them drive as close as possible without being seen. They’ll walk to the house from there,” he explains to the other two men and then turns to Ben again. “Is anyone else here? Or just the three of us?”

“Lol and his son, Tom, haven’t gone yet,” Ben answers, looking a little confused and still very concerned.

“Tom - is he my size? Will you ask them both to come in here?”

Ben nods and leaves the room.

“What’s the plan, Greg?” John asks him, his own brows knitted together with worry. Greg looks at him because he can hear the slightest hint of fear in John’s voice, but the doctor’s face is full of determination when Greg meets his eyes. Always a soldier.

“Local police hiding out in the surrounding buildings. Lol leaves, Tom wears my coat and leaves with Donovan. If he’s watching, Giles sees everyone go, except you and Ben. If he’s not, he only sees your car when arrives. If he’s done something to Sherlock, he can’t expect you to leave. But if he does want you gone, he’ll text Travers and you’ll leave so he can make his move. Either way, I’ll be here.”

“If he wants me to leave, I won’t go far,” John informs him with a gleam of anger in his eye. His lips press into a thin line. Greg nods and gives him a reassuring look.

“I’ll update Donovan. Be right back.”

***

The plan goes off without a hitch. Soon John, Greg, and Ben are the only people in the house. Sally and the other officers have taken up in and around the surrounding buildings with keen eyes on the house. All they need to do is wait for Giles to arrive.

By 9:30, the sun has set and darkness falls over the countryside. Looking out a window from behind a curtain, Greg’s mobile vibrates in his pocket.

“Donovan?”

“Cornish officers on patrol found Giles’ rental abandoned in Wadebridge. It’s north of here, not far. A car belonging to a local man was reported stolen. I’ve put out an APB.”

“Good work. I’m betting he’s headed this way,” Greg tells her and then in a quiet voice, almost to himself. “Why the hell would he go to Wadebridge?”

“Maybe to dump a body, sir,” Sally says grimly. Greg’s eyes blink wide. The Inspector must know something she isn’t saying. Greg steels himself before he continues.

“Tell me.”

“They found blood in the boot,” she pauses. “Not a lot, but enough. It has to be Sherlock’s.”

Greg closes his eyes at the news. It’s nothing they didn’t know before, but the idea of Sherlock being locked in the boot of a rental car, bleeding and on the way to god knows where sends a feeling of dread down to the DI’s core.

“Thanks,” Greg pockets his mobile and turns away from the window to face John and Ben. John recognizes his expression of regret immediately and stands.

“Greg?”

“Police found the rental in Wadebridge, abandoned,” he pauses. “Boot had blood in it.”

Anger flashes through John’s eyes and then his whole face turns stony.

“Ben, where is Wadebridge?”

“North of here. About 65-70 kilometers, I think.”

“I’m going,” John’s voice is low and dangerous.

“John, no,” Greg moves quickly to step into John’s path as he heads for the door to the foyer.

“Get out of my way.”

“It could all be a way to draw you out. Get you away from the house.”

“Sherlock’s out there,” John insists with gritted teeth, pointing in the direction of the front door.

“And what if he’s not? Suppose he’s still here.”

“No,” the doctor shakes his head. “We searched everywhere.”

“Could Justin have brought him back?” Ben suggests timidly. The three men look at each other. Greg pulls his gun.

“It’s unlikely, but I’ll check it out. Stay here. Both of you.”

“Greg..” John begins, but the DI cuts him off.

“I know, John. I know, but I need someone here with Travers in case Giles is here and just waiting for us to leave him alone,” Greg watches John, his face deadly serious. “Just stay here.”

***

Greg means to search the entire house and decides to start at the bottom. Seems the most likely and easiest place to gain entry, especially now that it’s dark outside. He finds the basement stairs and starts down slowly. Once he reaches the floor, he creeps around quietly among storage shelves and large boxes. The floor isn’t divided into as many rooms as others. Greg goes from one to another, looking for any sign of an intruder and then he sees it. A window near the ceiling just above ground and just big enough for a man to fit through. He walks over to it cautiously and lifts it open on its hinge. It’s been forced open and a tiny scrap of fabric is caught on the frame’s bottom edge. Greg eases the window down again and turns into a pipe swinging at his head. He drops like a sack of potatoes. Justin Giles stands over him with a long, black pipe in one hand. Giles picks up the gun Greg has dropped and looks up at the ceiling when he hears footsteps.

Meanwhile, John and Ben walk back into the sitting room after a short trip to the loo.

“Sorry. I guess I’m more nervous than I thought,” he says, but John waves him off. Ben swallows and clears his throat. “Look, I’m sorry about all this. About Holmes.”

“It’s not your fault. It’s all on Giles.”

“It’s still so hard to believe Justin would do this,” Ben sighs. “We’ve been friends for so long. Why would he want to hurt Finn this way?”

Something suddenly falls to the floor somewhere behind John. He spins quickly, pulling his gun, only to turn back again when Ben says his name in a shuddering voice. Glaring and training his gun on the two men, he stares down Justin Giles. Giles has Greg’s gun at Ben’s temple and holds him fast with his arm around his neck.

“Put down the gun or I’ll pull the trigger. I swear to god,” Giles commands. John takes a moment to size up Giles and quickly sees that he is most certainly a man on edge, but he is looking at John with hard eyes. His hands are steady and, while John doesn’t believe Giles sincerely wants to kill Ben, he is sure the man would shut his eyes and do it should John refuse to obey. Wanting to avoid putting Ben in more danger, John raises his hands and holds his fingers away from the trigger on his gun.

“Put it down slowly and kick it over here.”

John complies, not taking his eyes off Giles. John straightens and keeps his hands in the air. Silence follows.

“Justin?” Ben speaks first. “Justin, don’t. Just let him go.”

“Let him go?” Giles laughs. “You must be joking. If I want to make it out of here, I can’t leave either one of you alive.”

“You can’t get away, Giles,” John tells him in angry voice. “The police know you killed Braeden. They’ll find you. Do you really want to add two more murders to your rap sheet?”

“Maybe I do.”

“He’s right, Justin. You can’t get away.”

“Shut up! Both of you!” Giles shouts. All three men are silent once again until Ben speaks. He sounds like a man about to break, but John has to give him credit for his bravery.

“Why did you do it, Justin?” his deep voice catching. “Why? Finn was… He was so happy. Braeden was…”

“Braeden was a fucking arse bandit and he deserved what he got!” the words fly from his mouth with such vehemence that neither Ben nor John can hide his surprise. “And Finn played right into his hands. I saw him once at school, kissing a man. It was disgusting. But it was only girls after that. I thought it was some kind of experiment or something. All these years and he never said a word.” His grip on the gun tightens and he pulls harshly at Ben. “And then, a few weeks ago, he just shuts down Maggie. She’s been head over heels since they met.”

“Finn and Maggie were always good friends and nothing more,” Ben interjects. “She shouldn’t have assumed.”

“He led her on, Ben, and you know it.”

“He didn’t!”

“Yes, he fucking did. Always just enough encouragement to keep her hopes up and then when she wanted more, he dismissed her. He told her there was someone else and they were hopelessly in love. They were going to get married! He destroyed my sister for a twisted fling with a goddamn man!”

“Justin, it wasn’t a fling. They were in love,” Ben says firmly, not a trace of fear in his voice. “They’d been together for years. They were as committed as any two people could be. Finn never showed Maggie anything more than friendship.”

Giles’ hand quickly releases Ben’s body and pulls back on his hair roughly instead. Ben yelps and leans back into Giles, who presses the gun to Ben’s throat hard.

“They were sickening!” he exclaims. “Finn should’ve been with my sister. He should’ve dated her. He should be marrying her. Men marry women, goddammit! … Stay right where you are or I’ll drop him,  **Doctor.”**

John stands frozen. He had been inching his way closer to the two men while the conversation distracted Giles. Unfortunately, he hadn’t made it close enough before Giles noticed.

“I know what this is,” Ben insists in a pained voice. “Maggie told me you’d argued. She said she tried to explain. That Finn told her about Braeden and she understood. That’s why you have to kill me, isn’t it? I’ll lead the police to you. What are you going to do about Maggie? Are you going to kill her too? Won’t she tell them the same things I would?”

“SHUT UP!” Giles screams, pulling Ben’s hair harder.

“Let him go, you prick,” John says suddenly, fully pissed off. “It’s not your business to decide who Finn loves or who he wants to pledge himself to. What did you think? You’d kill Braeden and Finn would just run to Maggie?”

“My sister loves him!”

“Your sister would do better finding someone who loves her.”

Giles gives a cruel laugh and scowls at John.

“It would’ve worked, you know,” he pushes the gun barrel harder and Ben winces. “Finn and Maggie would be together right now. Ben would be dead and I’d be safe. But you and your damn detective had to interfere.”

John’s jaw tightens. His hands fisted at his sides, he cuts right through Giles with his eyes.  

“Where is he?”

“You won’t find him,” Giles answers with a dark smile. John takes a step toward him and he tightens his grip on Ben.

“You took him somewhere. Somewhere near Wadebridge.”

Giles’ eyes widen in surprise, but then he shakes his head slowly and smiles in what looks like admiration.

“You’re good, Doctor, very good. And to think I thought you were the weak link in the partnership,” Giles chuckles. John stares knives into the man and breathes slowly. “He’ll be dead when they find him, Doctor Watson. He’s dead already.”

Giles slowly extends his arm and points the gun at John. Leveling the barrel at John’s head, Giles grins.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it? Everyone would’ve been spared the pain if only Finn Travers was normal like he’s supposed to be.”

In one swift movement, John launches himself at Giles, reaching for his arm and knocking the gun from his hand, but not before Giles fires a shot. Ben twists out of Giles’ grasp and ducks to the side. Giles turns to pursue him, but John swings his legs out and trips him. John jumps on the man and punches him square in the jaw. Giles hits him back and then reaches for the gun he once held. Finding John’s instead, he picks it up and turns it on the doctor. John clamps his fingers around Giles’ wrist. The two men grapple for the gun and superiority, neither one able to gain the advantage.

Giles finally manages to gain the upper hand by rolling John onto his right arm, which was winged when Giles fired on him earlier. Weakened momentarily by the unexpected pain, John finds himself pinned beneath Giles and still holding his own gun at bay. John’s mind runs wild in much the same way Sherlock’s does when he’s looking for an instant plan of escape. He quickly headbutts Giles and shoves the dazed man off his body. Before either man can begin to stand, Greg comes into view holding his own gun on Giles.

“Drop it or I will end you.”

Giles remains still for a moment, and then moves suddenly to point and shoot. The DI beats him to it, hitting the man’s shoulder and knocking him to the ground. The gun falls from his hand and bounces away from him when it hits the floor.

At that moment, Sally Donovan and a handful of officers burst into the house. Their first call to action being the gunfire, followed by Ben running from the house and shouting for help. Giles is cuffed and made to sit in a chair. John sees to his wound, bandaging him tersely. Blood drips down Greg’s temple and cheek from where he was struck with the pipe. The sleeve of John’s shirt is soaking with blood from the wound on his arm, but neither one is interested in medical treatment. They stand squarely in front of Giles, joined together in one mission.

“Where is Sherlock Holmes?” John demands. Giles just glares. John steps forward and bores holes through the man with his stare. His voice is a low growl. “By god, you will tell me or I will rip out your throat, you intolerant bastard.”

Giles fixes John with a wicked look in his eyes.

“Tintagel. Merlin’s Cave.”

“My god!” Ben gasps. “The tide is in. The cave is flooded out!”

“Where is he exactly?” Greg leans in, getting right into Giles’ face.

“In the water,” his eyes slide to John’s and a nauseating smile spreads across his face. “I tied his hands and feet, tied a big enough rock to his ankles, and pushed them both in. He went right under.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have emerged on the other side. How ya feelin'? Did you think I was going to end it? Oh, no no, my friends, not yet. There are still so many questions to answer. So many lose ends to tie up. So much sex to be had and, apparently, there is a following among you that wants John to do more ass worshipping. 
> 
> To that end, I am not opposed to the idea and I am still editing, but the story is what it is. I wrote it the way I wanted and with what felt right at the time. If I think something is missing as I edit, I will change it, but I make no promises. I appreciate everyone's comments and suggestions, I truly do. Just promise me that whatever direction I take, you will not question the depth of John's love for Sherlock. He most assuredly loves him with all his heart and soul. If you want to think of it in terms of the show (i.e. The Fall), John would absolutely die for Sherlock if it meant protecting him from harm. Need proof? Go back to chapters 1 and 2. He already died for him once. Oops. Did I say once? ONLY once?
> 
> That said, cue dramatic music. DA DAAAAAA!!!!  
> * Has Sherlock drowned? Will they be pulling him out of the water or dragging it for his body? HOLY SHITBALLS!  
> * Will the boys EVER have any peace? I mean, they have off and on, but real extended peace?!?  
> * When is one or the other finally going to avoid being kidnapped? I mean, seriously.  
> * Who's behind the apples?  
> * What about this Templeton Morris fellow? Will he come back into play?  
> There are many, many more, but I'll just finish up with this.
> 
> WTF, JANE?? WHAT ABOUT THE WEDDING?!?!
> 
> Thank you all for your love and support. I couldn't do this without all of you. Writing and posting is truly a joy, but you all help make it even more fulfilling. Thank you from deep in my heart and watch out for Part 7. I'm hoping to start posting at the end of the week. Can't leave you hanging for too long. That's cruel. Also can't wear a green dress. That's cruel. Bahahahaha! Shout out to anyone who gets the reference.  
> Much love (and silliness), Jane


End file.
